A Fictional Reality
by AnalystProductions
Summary: Drew Andrews, protagonist of the hit comic-book series 'Emerald Rose', doesn't really do love. Soledad even puts that in the initial, unpublished character bio (before binning it). But when he does find himself suddenly falling, it is far worse than either of them could have ever anticipated. For starters, the girl is real. [Contestshipping]
1. My Life As A Fangirl

Welcome to my new story '**A Fictional Reality**'!

I've had this idea for a while and really wanted to try pursuing it. Unfortunately, my health is not great and things are serious so it hasn't been my priority, and I haven't had much energy left to put into stories.

_BUT_ I really wanted to give you something as I feel bad about the eternal hiatus of MayDrew Thing and other things I can't seem to finish. Plus this new idea genuinely got me excited! So I've tried to adapt my writing style as it takes too much focus atm to write how I normally do.

I need to just be doing something light and fun right now!

Without further notice, here we go,

Enjoy!

**Summary:** Drew Andrews, protagonist of the hit comic-book series 'Emerald Rose', doesn't really do love. Soledad even puts it in the initial, unpublished character bio before binning it. But when he does find himself suddenly falling, it is far worse than either of them could've ever anticipated. For starters, the girl is _real. _[Contestshipping]

_OR: _In which Soledad is an author with character development issues, Harley is her eccentric agent, May is a college student who has an unhealthy obsession with the series 'Emerald Rose', and Drew just generally causes a lot of problems for everyone whilst flipping his hair.

**Main Characters:** May Maple (17), Drew Andrews (17), Soledad (25), Harley (23) - with a side helping of Misty, Dawn, Brock, Max and Ash on the side. (Couldn't find relative ages, so I decided Soledad and Harley would fit in at these ages).

**Notes: **This story is set in a non-Pokemon universe (but Roselia does make an appearance :D).

**Warning**: This is rated T due to language and suggestive themes.

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><p><strong>A FICTIONAL REALITY<strong>

**.**

**Analystproductions 2014**

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><p><em>Night creeps over La Rousse City and allows the final streaks of purple and deep orange to linger tauntingly. It unsheathes its claws, loitering over the tips of the skyscrapers first. The gesture paints intimidating shadows across the streets, which are surprisingly still bustled with people. All sorts of people. Doting parents with small, wide-eyed children; Teenagers trudging reluctantly after their parents with dramatic sighs; couples too intent on falling into the stars to notice anybody else; older, content-looking folk with wistful smiles; some other older folk with considerably less tolerance for the groups of brazen youths without a chaperone that parade through the crowds and enjoy the attention.<em>

_There's all sorts, as said. _

_But this is La Rousse City afterall, so upon closer inspection it becomes easier to notice the icy chill in the air that is so much more biting than a Winter evening should ever be. The doting parents aren't doting, they're protecting. Their strained laughter at their child's innocent exclamations never reaches their eyes. The teenager, although kicking up a mighty fuss at having to associate themselves with their parents in public, vigilantly keeps at least three paces behind. When they accidentally fall back to four paces, a brief jolt of panic flashes in their eyes and they stumble forwards again. _

_The couples have their hands are interlocked whilst watching the stars phasing into brightness amidst the cloaked darkness. They're not admiring the sky though. Their eyes aren't sparkling like they were at sunset; there is a straightness to their posture, indicating caution. Even the group of brazen youths seem to be losing steam, voices dwindling to dull, hushed tones._

_Why such a drastic change as day fades to night? _

_It's simple; because everybody knows La Rousse City isn't safe at night. _

_La Rousse City doesn't have a hero, like Celadon or Goldenrod. _

_As much as the Police try, it's not enough. There's no force formidable enough or fearful enough to flush out the web of corruption that burrows deep into the City's crux. _

_But there will be soon._

_And this is where the story-_

"-May, dinner's ready!"

Groaning, the brunette attempts to block out the disruption beckoning her from downstairs, fingers gripping the crumpled paper with barely legible words splayed across its surface. _Just a few more seconds _and her first draft was _almost ready_ for a final proofread! Skimming her eyes over the page to retrace her steps, a triumphant smile spreads over her face when she finds her spot.

_And this is where the story beings. This is where he…our Emerald Rose-_

-Abruptly, and lacking in decorum, the bedroom door is thrown open. May jumps at the sudden noise, paper escaping her hands. As she lunges for it, her elbow ineptly nudges the hefty stack of notes off the desk. A momentarily intense paper hurricane swirls around her.

_"Max!"_ She hisses furiously, not even having to look at the intruder to identify them.

_Only_ her younger brother would deliberately sabotage her peaceful world and toss it into chaos. For a brief moment, she _kind of_ empathised with the poor citizens of La Rousse City; they never knew when the storm was coming. But it was imminent, a disruption to their serene routine. Grappling at the now uncoordinated spread of pages across the laminate floor, May grimaces. It was utterly tragic that she'd _just _finished sorting everything – aka the one hundred plus bits of paper - into a coherent order.

Pushing his glasses up his nose, the dark haired boy watches. He seems totally unfazed and, from the corner of her eyes, May sees him leaning against the frame of the door in a way that irritates her to the very core.

"You _could _help me, you know." She suggests from the floor, already expecting a quick-fired know-it-all response. Just as expected, the short boy's face splits into a grin.

"I can't believe how much work you're putting into some fanfiction about your fictional boyfriend-"

"-It's _not _fanfiction." May protests all too enthusiastically, cheeks flushed and sapphire eyes widening. Although she doesn't have to explain herself to her vexing brother, she continues. There's a small twitch of her lips when she remembers her ultimate, ambitious goal.

"It's a prequel, and everybody will _love it_, and then it will get published and become part of the official story. Pretty soon, just you wai-"

Unfortunately, the paper she's _finally _scooped into her arms splatters everywhere when she gets round to processing the final part of Max's sentence. Ah…he had said…Fictional. Boyfriend. _Fictional Boyfriend. _Nervously, she leaps to her feet, face burning. _As if _her face could be any redder. Her hands flail frantically through the air. The movement is so unhinged that she's perilously close to whacking _herself _in the face.

"H-h-e-y." Her voice springs up an octave, becoming a jittery squeak. "It's not like that-!"

If it is possible to literally choke on your words, May Maple is doing that _right now_ with, to her dismay, as little finesse as possible. Unimpressed, Max shoots her a deadpan look. He takes a step further into the cosy, neutral-coloured room and gestures to well… _all _of it. Swallowing-hard, May's eyes flit restlessly between the four walls.

The bland cream paint that covers said walls are barely visible behind the obscene amount of posters. Not to mention her desk. The free spaces, between books and needless clutter, are littered with merchandise. Protruding from beneath the pile of clothes on her chair is a t-shirt baring that iconic logo. A hoody with the words 'La Rousse University' deviously makes itself known too.

Her bed _looks _relatively normal and the face printed on the pillow is inconspicuously hidden by the duvet. Mostly. _Who is she kidding, really?_ There is nothing inconspicuous about this, about any of this. The bookshelf is riddled with further evidence. She doesn't _just _have every single volume of the _Emerald Rose_ comics. She has the specials, the magazine features, the 'making of'; _everything. _

Her gaze settles when she spots the Canvas painting she bought on Etsy last year. It's hanging above her bed, soft tones of green pouring warmth into the room. The sleek emerald hair is not quite long enough to conceal emerald eyes, which bore into her. He's standing at an angle; back almost totally facing her. The slight twist of the shoulders and neck are outlined by hypnotic white specs. In his right hand, swathed in the mesmeric glow of sunlight, is a wilted rose.

On the other side, the infinite shadows threaten to consume every detail. This still does remarkably wonderful things to his cheekbones. Beyond that though, it accentuates the striking colour of his eyes and the lack of warmth they hold despite their captivating nature. They're cold, calculating. It also leaves unspoken words sprawled across the parted lips. Sometimes she wonders why he's frozen like that, unable to bring himself to speak. Aside from the fact that this is a _painting _(she's not totally delusional)_,_ there's a dark poignancy in every stroke that suggests even if he could move, the words would remain lodged in his throat.

By his side, faithful as ever is Roselia, the strange but endearing creature with a red and blue rose substituting hands. May often wonders whether Roselia is at all related to her other favourite biological mystery, Groot. Just the thought of a crossover excites her, although Marvel is obstinate that this will _never happen_. It's obvious why, of course. Her sapphire eyes slowly regain contact with that impassive face.

Emerald Rose is incompatible, even with _his own_ universe at times. Frequently, the conclusions to stories revealed jarring moments, and May would bite her tongue in anticipation, genuinely stumped each time by the complexity of his character. Particularly in the early editions of the comics five years ago, when he was a total bastard, fans were left polarised. Even May Maple, who is _painfully_ caught up in his existence, admits the hair flip and smug remarks had been grating at first. _Especially _since he had done _nothing _to stop the chaos ensnaring the City.

But Volume Eight had changed _a lot_ of things. Her heart clumsily falters its steady rhythm as she recalls the legendary three-page proclamation. The deep emerald cloak flared in the conveniently timed wind, the shadows covered most of his face, including his eyes. And spewing from his mouth were surprising words in a white speech bubble; his acceptance of his destiny. What followed, of course, was a totally BAMF action sequence.

Yet despite this epic chapter, that had the world hollering because _character development_, he remains barely likeable or comprehensible. Probably because the _moment _he wins, the accompanying hair flip is a vicious reminder that he _will _swiftly regress into the character people love to hate. Emerald Rose often teeters outside the boundaries of a half-hearted, ambiguous protagonist and into antagonist territory.

Whilst this would make him an interesting addition to any film, and possibly a great accomplice for Loki, May assumes his character would be totally decimated if taken to the big screen or mixed with other fandoms. He is _constantly_ thrown into the 'Has A Secret Hero Complex' box. He's even been crowned the jackass of the comic book world who doesn't give a _flying shit _about anything or anybody_. _It's so bad that many fans _genuinely_ believe he would leave La Rousse City to burn in the Phantom flames of hell if the author ever gave him the option of saving it or the chance to abandon the shreds of justice he reluctantly pursued forever. Sometimes, these speculations even include abandoning _Roselia. _

Sighing, May rakes a hand through her tousled hair. They've got it all wrong. There's a difference between cynical and heartless. Emerald Rose does have a heart. And it's not black. She _knows it_. Even Soledad Cintadelez - the _author -_ infers this with subtly which is often lost amongst the debate. May has read the interviews, dissecting each sentence religiously until all that's left is the high esteem Soledad holds for Drew Andrews. The author often calls him by that name when discussing her work, rarely _ever _using his heroic alias. Alongside that, there is burning reverence between words that can't be _just_ because the Emerald Rose is her own marvellous creation.

He's _human. _Soledad's treatment of him outside of the comic book constantly points to that, often disregarded, truth. He's not callous or cruel. It's there somewhere, the shimmers of dazzling Gold and pure White. His eyes can't be totally iced over, there must be a crack somewhere that trickles out the mellow, _gentleness _embedded inside.

Poorly stifled laughter breaks her from her indulgent reverie. And _oh shit _Max is still in the room and she has spent _at least_ five minutes staring shamelessly at the Canvas. Her body moves of its own accord awkwardly, limbs tugging her somewhere - _anywhere - _so long as she's not standing in eyeshot of Emerald Rose. Though, realistically that's impossible as his face also plagues her walls. _Maybe_ she should take them down for a while; the thought of betraying Emerald Rose in such a way horrifies her. But she's more horrified when her brother looks mildly _disturbed, _wrinkling his nose.

"Could you at least moon over your fictional boyfriend a _bit _more discreetly?"

There are so many things she wants to say in response to this. One; she is _not _mooning over him, that's just stupid. May Maple does _not _moon over anybody. Granted, Emerald Rose is unlawfully attractive. But she likes him because of his…amusement flickers in her eyes. Well, she _can't _say his personality seals the deal. Fumbling through her mind for a more apt excuse, she stops on mystery. Yes, the alluring mystery that surrounds him.

The second thing she wants to declare is that _for goodness sake _Emerald Rose is not her Fictional Boyfriend! He _might _be holding the top spot in her 'Comic Crushes' list and has done for the past three years- so _what._ That was beside the point and has absolutely nothing to do with the matter at hand.

And then before Max could interject, she would conclude on her final remark: a real fan would _know _such a suggestion is preposterous. Emerald Rose seems to be missing roughly seventy percent of basic human communication skills and a heck more empathy.

Instead of this meticulously planned speech, what slips out of her mouth is totally unexpected and _ridiculous. _

"He is capable of love. I know it."

Gaping at the brunette he sadly is related to, Max Maple glances over to the Canvas briefly just before leaving her bedroom. Shoulders hunched, head bowed, May crushes her trembling lips together. _What _on earth was that?! She visibly cringes whilst the overwhelming conviction dripping from those words replay round and round and round her throbbing head.

From downstairs, May hears Max pull out a chair to sit on, already deep in conversation with their parents. There's the faint clinking of cutlery and glasses. Oh right, she remembers absently. Dinner is ready. That was the purpose of her brother's visit _before _her evening had thrown in the towel dejectedly and offered everything it had to pandemonium.

She's halfway down the stairs when it happens.

"May. Has. A. Boyfriend." Her mother chews over the words, clearly stunned by the information.

Pausing on the step, May clutches the bannister tighter and imagines she is crushing her brother's glasses. Max has _really _taken it too far this time. It's not funny. And _why_ can't their parents detect the evil _lies_ that lace every syllable in the same way she can? She scoffs. He's constantly regarded as the intelligent saint. Abruptly, there's movement from the table as the scheming continues. This time, it's Norman Maple and he's storming towards the stairs.

"-There's a _boy _in my daughter's room?!"

May adamantly believes that if she died right here right now, the cause of death would be sheer embarrassment.

**..ღ..**

"Yooohoo!" The eccentric man chirps as he bursts through the office, outfit as insulting to the eyes as ever. "Why aren't you _smiling _darling_?" _

Taking her eyes off the lightly sketched storyboard, Soledad Cintadelez turns to her old friend and agent, Harley Quince. Once again he's wearing the outfit proudly, as if he expects this would change her mind. Despite the amount of times she has outright refused to use his quirky design, Harley doesn't wear anything other than his hand-made costume until she accepts. He's convinced she will succumb to his baiting, because '_darling this costume is visionary'_.

Soledad studies the long lime trousers, the matching crop jacket. Beneath the jacket is a navy blue top with a diamond cut out around the stomach. There is no possible way to describe the hat without being moderately rude. She ponders _what in the world_ ever convinced Harley that this is the kind of thing Drew Andrews would don when fighting Phantom. It's not the kind of thing _anyone_ would wear.

…Besides Harley Quince.

"This just won't do Soledad, _come on!"_

Brushing a lock of purple hair from his eyes, he leans over the desk to scrutinise her face suspiciously. Unconvinced, he prods her cheeks as if expecting to find something hidden there. Anyone else would be traumatised, but she's not. Harley is…_Harley_, and she's used to his freaky antics by now. Soledad knows if she doesn't offer an expression other than the brooding one she's wearing soon, he _will _take his investigation up a notch.

A soft smile touches her lips and she knows it's not enough considering _the three-movie contract_ she signed two weeks ago, which was worth enough money to fund her comics into the _afterlife and beyond._ She should be ecstatic and over the moon that tomorrow is _finally_ the press release. Tomorrow is the highly anticipated day, where the world gets to hear the news of a movie adaption. Such an achievement merits champagne, cocktails - the whole shebang.

Instead, when the workday is over, she's sat in the office. Her editor, the assistant illustrators and everybody else has left. Yet here she is, staring down at her character who remains elusive as ever.

That aside, she _is _happy about the movie. And she should _probably _respond to Harley.

"I…it's just a lot of take in." That's what Soledad eventually settles for. Somehow, the man accepts her blatant lie, stepping back and laughing manically.

"Well anyway, let's go hun," He twirls theatrically.

Soledad raises a brow at her crazy friend that she has remarkable fondness for. Catching her confusion, he grins whilst adjusting the pointy green hat on his head.

"For once, I will buy all the drinks." He clarifies, extending a hand towards her.

This time, the smile isn't forced. It's been a long day; she should probably unwind and at least _celebrate _the victory for Emerald Rose. She can muse over Drew Andrews another time.

"Really?" she asks dryly.

Linking their arms together, she steers them out the office and towards the door. The fresh air is cold and intense as it hits her face; a stark contrast to the stuffy indoors. She sighs exasperatedly when she catches that twinkle in his teal eyes.

"Okay, what's the catch?"

Contorting his face, Harley tuts and gives the impression he is utterly scandalised by her implications. But there's a nervous twitch emerging in his fingers. He attempts to hide it with a playful wink.

"Can't I just be taking you out for celebration drinks?"

"-No." she admits, crushing his composure further. There's no such thing as Harley Quince doing something and getting nothing in return.

"_Darling,_" he starts, voice wavering._ "_I'm offended that you think I want something."

Unfazed, Soledad tightens her grip on his arm. He squirms in her grasp, evading her eyes each time they search his flushed face. Sweat collects at the top of his forehead. Her fingers flutter down to his wrist, feeling his pulse. Triumphantly, Soledad laughs heartily and nudges his shoulder.

"You_ do_ want something!"

Suddenly no longer flustered, Harley glowers at his talented, creative friend. Eyes narrowed, he detaches himself from her. Folding his arms across his chest petulantly, his feet fall heavier against the pavement. The muttered words that leave his mouth are barely audible.

"I just want you to draw Emerald Rose in my costume-"

"-No!" Soledad snaps, incredulous laughter slips through the syllable before he can finish.

"-_Just once!"_ He shrieks, refraining from walking.

There's a tug on her fulvous-coloured coat, and it implies everything she should have expected. Harley Quince can be such a little diva when he wants to be, oblivious to such a thing as _being in public_ or _toning it down_. The fact people are openly staring more than usual confirms it. Spinning around, she looks down at him on his knees, hands clasped together. He is clearly attempting puppy eyes but miserably failing.

"_Please _just draw it once and I'll _never, ever _ask again!" He begs in the middle of the street. Soledad absently hopes there aren't any nosy journalists about, because the last thing she wants is speculation over the status of her nuptials with _Harley. _

She doesn't believe that he'll _never, ever ask again _because they've been through this many times with many things. It's not her fault. They have explicitly different tastes in music, pop culture and clothing. Even if she fulfils his request, it won't be enough. Next he'll be asking for an entire spinoff fashion series about Drew Andrews with this over-embellished costume in the spotlight. She supposes he'd want her to call it 'Emerald Rose: À La Mode' or something just as ludicrous.

She imagines Drew's reaction to such an abomination on his wardrobe. He'd already attempted to rid himself of his long trademark cloak several times, and that actually _suited _him.

"Get _up_ Harley." She chides him like a child, though there's amusement in her eyes. He certainly chases threat of a dreary reality away on a daily basis and she has yet to thank him for it.

Reluctantly, the man does as he's told.

"I'll still buy you drinks," he says eventually to break the content silence. Lifting a finger, he frowns. "But that doesn't mean I'm not upset."

"Oh look," Soledad chimes, blissfully immune to his attempts of manipulating her into guilt. "Mojitos are two for one at Sushi High Roller!"

Immediately, he's dragging her towards the establishment, amplified misery forgotten. A smug smile, that could rival Drew's, ghosts across her face. Oh how the tables have turned, and _finally_ she's the one with complete leverage over her bizarre friend. Drew Andrews would be proud of the growth in her cunning streak (although Harley is totally to blame for its manifestation).

As the name flashes through her mind, Soledad's eyes harden. Drew Andrews, he troubles her. He troubles her more than anyone. She supposes she could liken him to an estranged family member, shrouded in mystery. That's the problem; he is a mystery and _he's not supposed to be_. She wonders _why _even after all the years she's spent devoting her life to his story, that there's something about him she ultimately fails to grasp. Actually, there are _many _things about him she can't grasp.

He is probably the character she knows the least but desperately wants to know the best.

The frustrating thing is, she _knows _once she does grasp whatever the missing pieces of his jigsaw are and slots it all together, that he could be _the _character of her whole career. But she can't seem to break down the devastating wall between author and character. Silently, she sits opposite Harley in the fancy, leather booth of Sushi High Roller. His words float over her head as she traces patterns into the marble table.

Maybe, it's not _her _who built the wall.

She's never had problems with a character to this extent before. Once again when she flicked through the sample of her latest Volume this morning, she had found words she _didn't write_, expressions she didn't draw. She didn't remember making his eyes so…blank either. It's mostly subtle changes, this time. Although, there have been multiple occasions where _entire pages_ of him are different and she would have to apologise profusely whilst explaining to the E.R team that she decided to make changes last minute. They always believed her, probably because the other option was ridiculous.

The other option makes Soledad question her sanity. Nonetheless, the fact that she didn't make the changes is unnerving.

At first she suspected Harley was behind it; that was dismissed quickly. Harley Quince was dramatic and relished it, but he wasn't immature enough to tamper with the final panels before printing just because she wouldn't use his costume design. In fact, the longer she had thought about it, she realised _nobody_ was, and the punchline had certainly expired by now if it was a joke. Not only that, but Soledad often would monitor the progress of each stage as closely as her own. She was well liked and respected; nobody would alter her work.

Which left one suspect, the one she had _really _suspected from the start.

Drew Andrews.

Sipping from the extravagantly decorated Mojito placed on the table, Soledad hums absently. Harley leans over to poke his straw into her glass, assuming that her drink is somehow superior to his. It's not. It's just this is the first time she's properly _acknowledged _the voice in her head telling her Drew Andrews is alive and she isn't sure what to do about it.

"What's got you thinking, new story idea?" Harley probes curiously, going back to his own drink, which is almost finished.

"I…" her breath hitches, and she's uncharacteristically anxious. It's too late to conjure a lie because Harley _knows her _and has detected the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the pursing of her lips. Damn him and his cactus hat.

"I was just thinking about Drew." She admits, the massive ball of nerves inside her untangling once the words leave her mouth. It's not weird to think about your character after all, and Harley is weird enough not to judge her.

"Ooooh, _what's this_?!" He cheerfully exclaims, drawing unwanted attention to their booth. There's a sneaky glint in his eyes, and Soledad is deeply concerned that they are on totally different pages.

Sinking further into her seat, she hopes that it would swallow her whole. It doesn't. Her second option is to immerse herself in a fuzzy cloud where nothing matters; only more alcohol could offer her this. She abandons the straw, finishing the beverage. For good measure, she asks the passing barmen for another. With newfound interest, Harley strokes his chin pensively.

"He _is _a tricky one." He purrs.

Fiddling with the straw in his empty glass, Harley appears to be grappling with solutions to things Soledad probably does not want to hear. Lifting his eyes to her, he smiles. _Uh-oh_, she thinks, _he is going to offer me advice_.

"You once said that he doesn't do love. However, I don't think he would rebuff your advances Sol. But that might be as he probably doesn't have a say in the matter." He lowers his voice, ensuring nobody else can hear. "You _definitely_ hold the pen in this relationship, you can make him do _anything _you want."

Soledad nearly backwashes the new Mojito she's drinking, spluttering. It takes a few moments to recover from the shock. Smoothing a hand down her coat, she glares pointedly.

"Don't be vulgar. He's practically my mind's _child_." She irately retorts. It doesn't sound half as angry as it should because the alcohol has started to slightly dim her perceptions.

"Whoopsie, apologies." Funny, Harley doesn't sound sorry about the mistake at all. "So we're talking parenting issues then?" he ventures, shrugging off her previous reproach with enviable nonchalance.

"I don't understand him at all." She presses a hand to her forehead and she finds once she's admitted that, she absolutely can't stop herself from talking. "Especially now Harley. I just can't grasp him. I'm scared he's drifting away, that I don't know who he is anymore. What if one day I sit down to draw him and I just won't be able to because I-"

He catches the twinge of underlying worry in her voice. Swiftly, Harley adopts his more serious agent persona. He presses a hand reassuringly over hers.

"-Don't be so silly Sol, you _created _him! Nobody knows him better than you."

The words hold so much conviction, that the woman instantly relaxes. Smiling softly she squeezes his hand, a silent apology for suddenly despairing over work at such an hour. But Drew's not work, he's a _part _of her somehow and filling in the blanks is so important. Going back to her drink, she offers a poignant smile.

"…I guess you're right."

"Greedy _Drew Andrews_," Harley scoffs teasingly, resting his elbows on the table. "He always has to make sure he's the focus of every single conversation doesn't he?"

Soledad laughs, an invitation for Harley to continue.

"I suppose he's gloating somewhere, perfectly flipping his perfectly perfect hair."

He attempts to mimic the signature move, and fails miserably. This time, she _really _laughs and tries the gesture herself. Harley's eyes light up in delight, but he admits a few seconds later that she is just as rubbish at it.

"How does he do it?" He pouts; fixing his purple locks that could never match up to Emerald Rose. "It's so _unfair _Sol_. _I bet the rest of your kids will be just as beautiful-"

"-You're such a closet fanboy." She beams into her straw, stifling another laugh.

"Am not." And because he can't resist, and Soledad is slightly intoxicated, he adds. "But I _do _think you should ask him if he'd wear my costume."

Gazing back at her friend, the heavy doubt consuming her is temporarily forgotten. The reason being that Harley Quince is talking about Drew Andrews like he's _real _and it's almost like they're poking fun at an old friend.

That makes her happier than the news of a movie adaption ever could.

**..ღ..**

The new Volume arrives on her doorstep promptly, just before she has to leave for college. Excitedly, May Maple tears the packaging away to reveal the cover of the Thirty-Fifth Volume she pre-ordered. Realising the time, she stuffs it into her backpack to read when the next free moment comes. There's only _so long_ she can avoid Ash Ketchum for. If she doesn't finish it before him, he's bound to accidentally spoil the Volume for her between shovelling food into his mouth over lunch.

Briskly, she dashes to the bus stop, relieved that she has roughly ten minutes to spare until it arrives. Unable to conceal her smile, May instantly takes out the comic to fully appreciate it. The cover, as usual, is _beautiful_ and leaves teasing hints as to the upcoming plot. Phantom takes up most of the right-hand side, swathed in darkness. The white mask full of jagged black lines and rid splotches still covers his face. His eyes appear even more terrifying, drenched in malevolence.

On the left-hand side, Emerald Rose is staring almost wistfully ahead, pillars of smoke rising from the fading outline of La Rousse City behind him. In one hand is the familiar rose. His other hand is reaching for the sky, an unnatural glow surrounding it. She squeals when she sees the handful of strong, dainty vines protruding from his back. This new power had only been revealed a few chapters ago and was rarely used. Apparently, it was going to be a key feature of this arc.

Awed by the vivid cover, May runs a hand over its smooth surface. Slowly, she peels it back to reveal the contents page. She's surprised to find a glorious _nine _chapters as opposed to the standard eight. A bonus is always a pleasant surprise. Her lips purse, _why _is there an extra chapter? Perhaps the extra chapter is a sign of oncoming hiatus. She remembers the two-week delay of Volume Fifteen and that was an _agonising _wait. She's not sure what she'd do if Soledad announces a break.

Dispelling the thought from her mind, May hops onto the bus and perches on the window seat. She blocks out the rowdy group of students at the back of the bus, falling into the world that was Emerald Rose. She remains this way, even when the sprightly blue-haired girl steals the seat beside her. There's no warning for Emerald Rose this time. Phantom appears out of nowhere, and the chapter launches straight into the action. The lack of usual build up adds to the intensity.

"May!" there's an insistent tug on the brunette's arm. "May look at this _please!_"

May choses to block out her friend's voice, mainly because Emerald Rose and Phantom are currently in a vicious stalemate and she's honestly unsure who will strike first. Also, she's eagerly waiting to see the new power in detail.

"They're making Emerald Rose into a movie!"

Dawn's words catch her off-guard. Movie. An Emerald Rose movie?! The thought of seeing Emerald Rose on the big screen is overwhelming. But May suspects there's something she's missing. Darting her eyes away from the comic, May glances over to Dawn. The blue-haired girl pulls out a magazine that confirms everything.

It's not going to be animated; it's a real film.

"_Look _who's playing the hero himself…" Dawn dreamily swoons, staring at the celebrity on the magazine cover.

May bites her tongue to correct Dawn because Emerald Rose is _not _technically a fully-pledged hero. Averting her eyes back to the comic, May swallows hard and feels a little uneasy. They're going to turn Emerald Rose into some cliché-box office-superhero-bonanza; she just knows it. May is highly convinced just from a brief look at the cast that this isn't going to score any higher than 30% on Rotten Tomatoes. She's not usually disheartened, but she wonders what Soledad's intentions are for giving Universal the rights to make the film.

"Um…what's wrong?" Dawn enquires, puzzled. "I thought you'd be excited about this, you're _obsessed_ with Emerald Rose."

"I am." May responds, never allowing the chance for her loyalty to be doubted. "It's just, he doesn't look like Drew." Flitting between Dawn's magazine and the panel she's gotten to in the comic, May smiles wistfully.

"If they'd used the _real _Drew, it would've been better." She wonders then what kind of voice would suit him best for the movie. She's always imagined him to be slightly rough and unrefined but well rounded. Her eyes narrow; she knows for a fact that the chosen actor has a totally contrasting tone. He's a little too sweet and way too much of a heartthrob.

"He's not real you know." Dawn teases, sticking out her tongue.

May doesn't understand why the words annoy her so much. Blushing, she slams the comic book shut, as if shielding Emerald Rose from their embarrassing discussion.

"Wh- I _know_ that Dawn! Cut it out!"

Giggling, Dawn absently pulls her long, silky hair into a ponytail.

"Sorry May, you're just so cute with your _little crush_-"

"-It's _not _a crush-!"

It is a crush.

"-_Anyway,_" Dawn points to the magazine dreamily once again._ "_I'm definitely going to watch the movie, just for the eye-candy._" _

For the rest of the journey, the two girls indulge in reading before they're forced to be reading entirely different books like _maths textbooks. _Dawn gasps occasionally after spotting what May assumes is celebrity gossip. Meanwhile, May is _finally _near the end of the comic. Part of her is relieved that Ash Ketchum can no longer spoil it for her. The other part is _infuriated_ because she's such a fast reader and the Volumes never seem to last as long as she wants them to.

Flicking to the bottom of the page, the brunette frowns. The epic battle she's been expecting for a whole nine chapters doesn't happen. Instead, Emerald Rose half-heartedly says something totally obnoxious and fires a razor leaf attack at Phantom absently. _And that's it_, aside from the movie announcement. Skimming over the previous pages, May draws her eyebrows together. _No. _There are no new special attacks in any of the chapters, and the vines haven't surfaced _even_ once!

That can't be it, _surely._

Putting the book down, May sighs_. Of course,_ he wasn't going to use the new power. It was probably too much effort, too much of a commitment for his style. She can't help but feel bitterly disappointed.

Sometimes, May Maple agrees with the rest of the world. Emerald Rose can be a total jerk.

**..ღ..**

He hops over the gutter ahead of him on the page and into the final panel, Roselia benevolently by his side. Phantom is spewing some pointless villain shit at him this time whilst _descending dramatically_ from the sky. Flicking his gaze up to the panels above, the emerald haired protagonist quickly tries to understand where on earth his arch nemesis came from because he'd just been walking the street aimlessly tonight. There hadn't been any hints of imminent doom.

As usual, Soledad _doesn't _clarify, irking him a little. Sure, she's consistent enough for the readers and mostly for him, but _he's _the one in the story. Not them. It would be nice to have some warning when this happens. He has to act the whole thing out against his will, often defying the stupid poses he's been moulded into and adapting the dialogue to suit him better. No _way _in hell is he _ever _going to stand on top a building with his hands on his _hips _like Superman. That's not his style at all.

Soledad never complains when he tampers with her work though (which is all the time). He assumes she is aware of his frequent and rebellious input, but never acknowledges it directly. There's no surprise why - she is _real _after all. Real people are different. When he is daring enough to peer over the pages and into the huge expanse that is _reality, _he watches these strange people toil about daily, mundane things.

They're unimaginative and close-minded; it's disgusting. That's why they never notice when he moves around the page. _Honestly,_ he could do the Macarena in a hula skirt with maracas and the faces staring down at him wouldn't even bat an eyelid. Pathetic. Not that he _has _done that, mind you. He does not dance.

He doesn't do anything really; just this hero gig that he certainly doesn't remember signing up to.

Today, reality is a bus. He's lingering on the pages of quite possibly his biggest fan. He often finds himself here, on the pages of _her _copies for reasons he can't fathom. Perhaps it's the unyielding confidence this girl has in him, which is downright confusing because she doesn't really know anything about him. Or maybe it's the fanatical passion she has for the entire series. It's always nice to watch others appreciate Soledad's hard work, and nobody he's ever observed shows it better than this brunette.

Phantom is cackling, drawing him back to the current panel. Lightning flashes across the ominous sky, creating theatrical silhouettes of the pair. Their long shadows entwine, but their distance is vigilantly maintained. The villain's words are more vindictive as he reveals his master plan in that grating voice which _surprise surprise _involves the destruction of La Rousse City.

Seriously. This guy has _no _innovative evil schemes. They're all second rate and fairly predictable. Aside from the fiasco in Volume Sixteen of course…Drew snarls. That had been a fucking good one.

Phantom baits him a final time, hand outstretched imploringly. Ah. It's fight time. Rolling his eyes, Drew Andrews tosses his cloak away into the storm and wonders why every single thing, no matter how trivial, is _always _his problem in this fucking City. All he _wants _to do is retrieve his memories, unlock his foggy past. He never asked to be the hero, or anything that remotely resembles one. It's not _his _fault he kind of has supernatural leaf powers or whatever.

He just has to work with his character description, that doesn't mean he has to like everything in it.

And it's pissing with rain. His hair begins to flop, sticking to his forehead. Visibility is poor, he can barely make out Phantom in the torrential downpour.

He realises this bigass storm isn't just a demonstration of Pathetic Fallacy, and _yeah_ he probably does deserve this. Especially considering how much he fucked up the ending of Soledad's last Volume, exchanging what would've been his _debut smile_ for a smug, aggravating smirk and shitty remark. He doesn't _do _smiles; she knew that and shouldn't have pushed it.

Springing into action, Drew Andrews for once complies with Soledad's request because he doesn't really fancy enduring this fight for longer than necessary. He leaps as the page turns, into the first new panel. But as he does, he dangerously lets himself get caught between reality and fiction. The brunette's friend squeals and it's the words he hears that shock him.

He almost stumbles into the next scene, composing himself quickly and hoping his reader doesn't see because this girl is _slightly _more observant than the rest. As he glances up, he notices her head is turned away. Leaning against the outlined panel box, Drew lets out a sigh. For a moment, Phantom remains still, also digesting the information.

A movie.

It's _everything _he feared and more.

The outside world is making a Hollywood blockbuster movie about him. A _live-_action movie. To be more precise, some hotshot _real _person was going to stamp all over his character in a hopeless attempt to portray him. The whole thing screams disaster and he is slightly relieved to hear the uncertainty _he feels_ echoed in the brunette's voice, even if right now he's too distracted to hear what she's saying.

A movie.

Why on _earth _would Soledad agree to this?

Furious, Drew Andrews pointedly discards the speech bubble to his left, deciding to replace it with his own words. Smirking, he flips his hair. It's his signature move, and what follows usually rubs everyone up the wrong way. Roselia raises a brow, unimpressed.

"I'd _love _to stay and play Heroes and Villains," His voice oozes sarcasm. "But fuck this."

Sharp razor leaves spew from his palm. A brightly coloured _WHOOSH! _follows the leaves. Don't ask how he does this, he doesn't know. Soledad has yet to explain his _whole backstory, _drawing out the suspense for as long as possible. But the longer she does this, the longer there's a gaping, infinite hole inside of him. He often uses this as his justification to behave this way. A yelping Phantom, who has yet to reveal the face behind that hideous mask, barely dodges the attack.

"I'm going home."

If this cold indifference isn't going to make the real world explode, profanities included and whatever else he apparently _always _does wrong, he doesn't know what will. He pretends not to wince as Phantom's final words reach him.

"You don't even _believe _there's such a place." Pause. "I'll defeat you next time, and on the big screen!"

The words are scripted, _all _of them. Soledad must have predicted his deviation from her script. Exhaling, Drew Andrews carefully steps over the nauseatingly obnoxious 'THAT'S RIGHT! EMERALD ROSE IS BECOMING A MOVIE!' spread across the bottom of the page. He leaps out into the gutter, a white expanse of nothingness where he can just _be. _Nothing more, nothing less. Only here is where he finds a quiet stasis between the bustling worlds. Gazing up at the unreachable outside, Drew Andrews grimaces.

Soledad is right, of course.

He doesn't believe in anything. How can he?

He's _fiction._

* * *

><p>So Harley and Soledad <em>kind of<em> took up more of the Chapter then I intended. I'm not even sorry, I love the idea of Author!Soledad and Agent!Harley.

Kudos to whoever figured out the reason behind 'Harley Quince' I couldn't resist (I think I'm so funny sometimes).

I should probably clarify that the gutter Drew jumps into is not an actual gutter, it is a comic book term so check wiki if you need to (I totally used wiki to make sure I got it right lol)!

See you next time,

Please share with me your thoughts!

Ciao.


	2. As If This Could Ever Happen

Wow. _For the first time in forever, I have updated a story_. And I've done it in less than a week?! And I've already written the Christmas Chapter! What can I say, I'm stupidly excited about this fic.

This story has rekindled my passion for writing.

So the first few chapters are very much setting the scene as we settle into this universe. I wanted to introduce all the main characters properly (aka, I'm being way too indulgent and giving everyone too much airtime). Already, I've had to cut this chapter in half because I do not have a word count radar.

Anyway, let's do this!

**Warning**: Contains explicit amounts of snark and sass and most of this chapter is probably fan service and geeky references (...not _that _kind of fan service).

**Extra note**: I've decided that each Chapter name will be from the POV of one of the characters. Today it's Drew. Also, I'm from the UK so when I say College, I mean ages 16-18.

* * *

><p><strong>A FICTIONAL REALITY<strong>

**.**

**Analystproductions 2014**

* * *

><p>Lunchtime finally comes and, despite trying to feign nonchalance, May Maple is <em>still <em>a little annoyed at Emerald Rose for the stunt he pulled at the end of the Volume. Strangely, she's not mad at Soledad because she's sure it can't be _totally _the author's fault. May hardly expects Emerald Rose to alter her mood _so much_. Yet the more she remembers the crass words and shitty attitude, the annoyance sifts into genuine anger. Emerald Rose is an icon, a character some genuinely admire. The _thought _that he was deliberately abusing his position almost aggregates the same frustration May Maple has when Max pulls a silly pranks on her.

Her usual sunny demeanour had become so stagnant that Professor Oak, discreetly pulled her aside at the end of Biology class to ask if there was anything she needed to talk about. The sincere look in those eyes had suggested he was expecting something other than 'Emerald Rose has really let me down'. Thus, May had mustered one of her cheerful smiles and assured the Professor she was _just fine_.

She is not just fine. She can't even.

And whilst part of her is in disbelief she feels so many _intense _emotions for a character, the other part is totally focused on how she is _not fine. _She is suffering the worst fictional-slump ever (besides the feels train that was Volume Fifteen, but that's _fandom-classified_).

Repetitively, she stabs the defenceless pasta on her plate. She doesn't realise she's doing it either, until _Gary Oak _makes a crude remark. Gazing down at her plate, May groans. The tomato sauce does an excellent job of bleeding vividly through the holes she's made.

None of them are quite sure _why_ exactly Gary Oak, or Gary Motherfucking Oak as Misty Waterflower refers to him, becomes part of their tightknit friendship circle. He just does. May believes that eighty percent of the group wish that he would live up to his playboy reputation and go hang out with the giggling girls who ogle him at least three times a week. He doesn't. Clearly, he gets too much enjoyment from tormenting others, in particular _Ashy-Boy_.

So a mutual agreement is made, and reaffirmed on a daily basis. Through riled expressions and heavy eyes, they all grimly _accept_ that this is how things are going to be for the rest of their lives. After all, it's been six years and counting since he propped his muddy shoes on Misty's lap and tossed Ash's cap into a nearby puddle_._ As the years went by, '_smell ya later losers_' turned into _'get in losers, we're going shopping'. _Since then, Dawn has had this crazy theory that he is actually Regina George, reincarnated.

Unfortunately, none of them are cool enough, and _never will be_ cool enough, to dictate who can and can't sit with them. Also, he_ is_ Professor Oak's grandson and everybody feels indebted to the warm, friendly Biology teacher and benevolent community figure. Still, Gary Oak is scientific proof that personalities are _not _genetic. May Maple can't imagine the grey-haired Professor being such a smirking sadist_._

Against her will, _that _face creeps into her mind again.

Perhaps Emerald Rose and Gary Oak would get along like La Rousse City on fire. Prodding her food, May feels a little nauseated. Having _two _smirking teens in the same place, one flipping their hair for good measure, would probably tear a destructive hole in the fabric of space and time. It's definitely for the best that they are in alternate universes and will _never _meet. Especially as the other possibility, that they will clash, also spells disaster on an apocalyptic level.

"So May," the raven-haired teen says. Broken from her thoughts, May watches as he shoves a slice of pizza tactlessly into his mouth. "Wha' d'y bout t'moie?"

Blinking, May slowly tries to process what _on earth_ her friend has said. She supposes it has something to do with Emerald Rose. That's the only thing they talk about together, often excluding the rest of the uninterested group when they do so. After four attempts to piece it together, May finds herself baffled and smiles awkwardly at her friend who is avidly awaiting a response.

The thing is, Ash Ketchum is a little dense and headstrong at the best of times. But despite this, he has a good heart and intentions of gold. Beside him, the red-haired girl is wearing a look of utmost disgust. She thwacks him in the shoulder hard enough for him to almost spit out what he's chewing. To everyone's relief, he doesn't. Still, Dawn consciously moves her plate further away.

"What _the hell_ Mist?!" Ash shouts. He rubs his aching shoulder with his hands, swathed in his trademark green gloves.

May is often bewildered by the fact Ash Ketchum continues to wear fingerless biker gloves despite never having owned a _single _bike in his life. That doesn't stop him from destroying every single bike that ever was and ever could be, though. Gary jokingly named it the 'Ketchum Curse'. Nowadays, it is an urban myth. That doesn't mean it's not taken seriously.

_Nobody _takes it more seriously than Professor Oak. Anyone who looks ready to mount a bike will indefinitely hear him fretfully insisting '_This isn't the time to use that_!'.

The Curse began three years ago, when Ash accidentally trashed Misty's bike whilst ferrying Pikachu to the vets. Apparently at the time, he was also being chased by a flock of irate buzzards. The story is _so ridiculous _that it's hard to believe. However, this _is _Ash Ketchum. Somehow, he seems to be involved in every bizarre experience in the Kanto region.

It was only last year that May's own bike succumbed to the Ketchum Curse, serving as a reminder to all cyclists that the urban myth still exists. Dawn now adamantly keeps her bike as far away from his vicinity as possible, convinced that if she discloses _any information_ on its location that it will be subjected to the same cruel fate.

Shoulder aching substantially less, Ash goes back to his food recklessly. Recklessly is probably the best way to describe it, because May is sure there is a high probability he could choke and die. If _Extreme Eating_ is a thing then Ash probably is the very best, the world champion.

"Would it kill you to have some _manners_?" Misty hisses petulantly, glowering at the teen she willingly chose to pursue a semi-functional relationship with. She doesn't show any signs of embarrassment though, never giving an inch. May envies how, besides her raging temper, Misty Waterflower pretty much takes everything in her stride with unmatched confidence.

"Hey Red, there's really no point." Gary casually remarks from beside the redhead. Although his expression is stoic, giving nothing away, everyone detects an oncoming insult. Misty braces herself for the opportunity to throw a fist in his direction.

"Neanderthals don't have the capacity to understand what you're saying."

Dawn swiftly sinks further behind her magazine and pretends she's not aware of the dangerous tension simmering between Gary and Misty. It's a little selfish of her really, because the blue-haired girl is the _only _person capable of preventing the imminent explosion. May wishes she could also hide behind a book - _oh wait - _that would mean having to encounter Emerald Rose again and she still hasn't forgiven him. She's not one to hold grudges but a rare exception is made on this occasion. Miserably she takes a bite of her soggy, heavily assaulted pasta.

Emerald Rose is _always_ the exception, to everything.

"What's a Neanderthal?"

Once again, Ash Ketchum provides further proof that he _never helps himself_ in these situations. Seething, Misty urges him to shut-the-fuck-up.

"Well, I rest my case." Gary holds up his hands jubilantly, voice drenched in satisfaction.

For a few moments, there's enough calm in the air to suggest a peace treaty has miraculously been signed by all parties. No matter how optimistic May Maple is, she highly doubts the day will ever come when this atmosphere lasts longer than a few minutes. Deciding to take advantage of however long it will last today, she finishes the rest of her pasta. She's surprised when _ten blissful minutes_ pass and Gary Oak hasn't said anything remotely infuriating.

Turning her attention to the spiky-haired teen, May frowns. He might not be _saying _anything, but there's an abundance of private amusement dancing in his eyes. Also, the constant twitch of his lips insinuates that the silence is going to be broken _very soon. _Following his steady gaze, May finds Ash Ketchum who adjusts the cap on his head slightly. The gesture is impressively subtle.

Nonetheless, he's not fooling Gary Oak who seems to be revelling in the fact he's noticed what's happening before anybody else. When Ash fiddles with his cap for the third time in the space of ten seconds, realisation settles upon May. _Of course. _She stifles a shocked gasp, catching Gary's eyes across the table. He presses a finger to lips, cocking his head towards Misty Waterflower who has yet to realise what Ash Ketchum has done.

May decides it's probably best to just let Gary deal with this, because she's significantly less sly. Not to mention that guilt consumes her just _at the thought_ of selling out a friend, even if it is the right thing to do because pets are definitely _not _allowed on campus. Yet no matter how many times this is emphasised, the adorable, fuzzy mouse continues to _mysteriously_ find itself on campus.

It's not a mystery, really.

"Say, how is Pikachu doing?" Gary muses curiously, tapping his chin.

Ash's eyes grow comically wide. His hand freezes mid-air on its way to his cap. Eyeing the redhead opposite him with caution, Ash swallows hard. It's only a matter of time until the pin drops and he's slightly terrified. All he can do is clumsily stall time. But _maybe _when the moment of Judgement comes to claim his soul, he can seek refuge in the male restroom on the other side of the cafeteria.

"Ha! What makes you ask that _Gary_?" He responds through gritted teeth. Even though there's a wide smile on his face, it's clear he is wondering if he can get away with murder in such a public place.

Shrugging, Gary casually reaches over for the final half of Dawn's exquisite sandwich and takes a bite. She doesn't notice, still cooped up in the celebrity magazine. May frowns; Dawn always has the most tempting, best-looking lunch. She should maintain the same vigilance she does for her bike.

"It's just," There's a hum of approval as Gary finishes the food. "You must miss him when you're at college. Don't you ever-"

His words are cut off by the sound of a fork slamming against the table with needless force. Misty glowers. This time it's not directed at Gary, who probably deserves one for instigating this. Instead, her cerulean eyes target Ash Ketchum. Oh _holy shit _his life is flashing before his eyes. May watches her friend squirm under the redhead's scrutiny. She should feel sorry for him, but then again he has _totally _brought this upon himself. Leaning back into his seat, arms outstretched behind his head, Gary grins. _Showtime. _

"Pikachu is here, isn't he."

Never before has Misty sounded so calm; _too _calm. The smooth, undulations of her voice are chilling; it is probably scarier than all the latest horror blockbusters put together. It's not a question either; it's an imperative demand for Ash to disprove the statement. Obviously, that's _never _going to happen because Ash and Pikachu are inseparable and he's clutching his cap _protectively_.

Ash is a_ terrible_ liar. Today that will be his downfall.

Dawn choses this moment to join in, because it's too good to miss. Gary ensures to avoid her eyes when she finally notices the missing food on her plate. May is impressed with his innocent expression. Despite being a witness to the crime, she almost believes Gary Oak is not liable_._

"Um, w-well. Uh…" Ash stammers, dodging the swipe of Misty's hand. He's now leaning so far out of his chair it's only a matter of time until he falls gawkily onto the floor. "Well, you see Misty-"

"-Did someone say Pikachu?" A saccharine voice chimes.

Rolling her eyes, May groans when she spots the source of the voice. A tall woman with flowing pink hair stands back to back with a blue-haired man; Jessie and James. They're wearing their matching white uniforms today, with long black gloves. She purposely chooses to ignore the red rose in James' hand because she does _not _need any reminders of why her day has been more dismal than usual _thank you very much_.

Even Gary appears to be a bit peeved by their sudden appearance, clicking his tongue in irritation. Looks like the show has an unexpected intermission.

"What do _you guys_ want?" He asks grumpily.

Opening his eyes, James sniggers. It appears to be the cue for their embarrassing motto. Hands on hips, Jessie begins the dramatic proclamation. May imagines music blaring behind them, which is supposed to make them more intimidating. But it backfires, because the whole thing is melodramatic given the context. And as usual, May is struck with heavy disbelief that these two got _elected _to become their _Student Reps_. Dawn was right; Butch and Cassidy were robbed.

"To protect the class from devastation-"

"-_Really_?!" Dawn protests, whilst the unfazed pair continue.

"-To unite all pupils in education." James adds, touching the rose to his lips.

"To denounce the students who pass the blame!"

Reaching a hand out, James falls to one knee tastefully.

"To extend our reach to the _Hall of Fame_!"

May rubs her forehead, a sympathetic sigh leaving her lips because they will _never _make the College Hall of Fame. However, she commends them on their perseverance and determination. That's a truly admirable trait to possess. It's _certainly_ something Emerald Rose lacks.

"Jessie!"

"_James-_"

"-Can we skip the motto crap? We know who you are from the previous _thousand _times you've hassled us." Gary snaps hastily.

"Oooh, someone's _prickly." _Jessie quips.

"All hedgehogs are." James adds slyly with a grin.

Snarling, Gary_ somehow_ reigns in the desire to lunge across the table. Dawn is ashamed that she actually finds the joke funny. She pushes the magazine against her face to conceal the uncontrollable smirk.

"Where's Pikachu twerp?" Jessie enquires impatiently.

Alas_, there it is_. The predictable question. Yet each time it's asked, Ash Ketchum looks more and more surprised. For some reason, the _only _thing these two seem to care about doing for the College is capturing Pikachu and bringing it to Principle Giovanni. Perhaps they think that catching a rodent on campus premises, and doing something that doesn't end in failure, would make other students take them a bit more seriously.

"You'll never get Pikachu! He's not here." Ash jumps out of his seat, fist clenched by his side. His face is smeared in determination, eyebrows drawn together and lips pursed.

"Lying to a Student Rep? I must say, _hats off_ to your audacity."

James looks genuinely hurt that not one person laughs at his pun.

"Tough crowd." Jessie sighs dismally. Sharply turning to Ash, her eyes narrow. Before she can continue the interrogation, Misty heatedly interjects.

"Pikachu's not here. So _please, _leave us to have lunch in peace."

May is seriously concerned that the redhead considers what they were previously doing counts as '_having lunch in peace_'.

"We'll be back twerp-"

"-At the drop of a hat." James adds needlessly, evoking not the slightest ounce of amusement amongst the group of dispassionate teens.

"I think you should put your _thinking caps_ on, because these jokes are terrible."

Immediately, the group snigger over the witty response.

"I can't believe it." Ash grumbles, head resting against the table. He's clearly torn between wanting to laugh at Gary's words and wanting to sulk childishly in a dark, lonely corner for the rest of eternity. "Why did _he _have to say it?"

Jessie and James promptly take their leave in their most anticlimactic exit yet. There's no bravado this time, as they drag themselves dejectedly away from the laughing teens. May recalls the time with conveniently placed trampolines (they had been in the Sports Park), and the time involving roller blades on top of a really big hill. On both occasions, they were literally _blasting off again. _

"I'm going to call Delia and tell her everything if you don't take Pikachu home _right now-"_

"-But it's lunchtime Mist, and I'm _hungry._" Ash complains openly, holding his stomach as if he hasn't been stuffing his face for the past ten minutes.

"That'll be the _least _of your worries if you don't get a bloody move on!" Misty screeches, looming over him lividly. The brunette can _feel _the overwhelming heat and half expects her friend to start breathing fire. She doesn't, because thankfully, this _is _reality.

A pale Ash Ketchum briskly leaves the cafeteria on her command. Gary cackles into his drink, delighted by the turn of events. Sharply, Misty twists in her seat to face him.

"Gary _Motherfucking_ Oak," she spits, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes that unnerves him slightly. "I hope you're not dumb enough to think you're getting out of this lightly."

Folding his arms across his chest, Gary smirks.

"_Whatever,_ I have no regrets."

"Okay. _Sure._" Abruptly the anger is gone, replaced with something far more dangerous. Misty's lips twitch as she ruffles a hand through his spiky hair. "Keep telling yourself that_, Sonic_."

Dawn bursts into full-bodied whimsical hysterics, magazine trembling in her hands. Affronted by the new nickname, Gary Oak slumps in his seat. He wants nothing other than the power to rewind back fifteen minutes. To rewind back to when _he _was the only one dishing out the snark, and everything was _perfect_.

"Yes!" Dawn squeals in unrestrained delight. "We've finally got something on Gary. This is the _best day ever!_"

"If that's your criteria for the _best day ever,_ I kind of feel sorry for you." He says, but there's no venom to his words, only exasperation. May assumes that he's understood. He is _never_ going to live this down. This is payback for every one of his shitty comments, and there have been a lot of them.

"Shouldn't you be off collecting rings, Sonic?" Misty enquires in a sickly-sweet tone. "Bring me one-hundred, then I'll give you a new life with your dignity back."

Biting her lip, May swallows the laughter bubbling up inside her. Misty's not so much the avid gamer she used to be, yet the years spent pulling all-nighters on Playstation and Xbox are _really paying off. _

"_Go to hell_, Red."

"Better level-up Sonic, that's not good enough-"

"-I swear I will _end you_-"

But its already _Game Over. _Misty has won this by a landslide and Gary _knows _it. He's hopelessly grappling specs of sand, victory sieving through his fingertips and into cerulean waters.

"-Demonstrate Spin Dash, and I'll consider letting you_ try_ to 'end me'."

"…I fucking _hate you." _

Surprisingly, this is nothing more than a typical lunchtime for May Maple.

**..****ღ****..**

Drew leaves the brunette's copy of _Emerald Rose _a little earlier than anticipated. He knows when he's not wanted. The fact that she hadn't opened the book for _two whole hour_s, prior to slamming it shut with a dejected sigh, indicates he has done something to offend her. The bubbly brunette never has _anything_ but pure, admiration for the series.

If _she's _annoyed, the girl made out of sunshine, then Soledad is going to be fucking pissed.

Of course, he knows exactly what he's done.

He has totally sabotaged the entire Volume by skipping over crucial battles like they're playground feuds, smearing arrogance over every panel. He has good reason to do this though, because _there's going to be a movie _and he has absolutely no say in it whatsoever. He should have a say, because he's Emerald Rose, the _main character. _Surely, what he wants is as important as what Soledad and the hotshot actor playing him want?

Real people don't think this way. That's the problem. Characters are characters. 'Bringing them to life' is an overused phrase, which has no meaning. It's flamboyant crap. He's _already _alive. He's just…not real.

Currently, he's chilling out on Soledad's desk in an unfinished sketch for the next Volume. There's endless white, a few buildings in the background. It's a perfect thinking spot. No panels, no boxes; just an open space to float. Having said that, it's probably the most dangerous place to be. Once Soledad sees what he's done, she _might _accidentally murder him by crumpling the paper or taking a thick black marker and pummelling his head with it.

Okay, _she's_ too sincere for that kind of vindictive behaviour. But her eccentric friend, who often frequents this room, is definitely capable of this heinous crime. Vigilantly, he pokes his head over the page every few minutes to ensure the coast is clear. If things get ugly, there's a skyscraper of previous Volumes on the desk that he can jump into.

So far though, things are idyllically quiet. Until, a familiar shadow hovers over him.

"_Don't_ give me that look Roselia." He drawls, leaning comfortably against the lightly sketched lamppost.

Roses on her hips, Roselia shakes her head. She says her name a few times, laced in frustration. He translates silently, used to detecting the subtle inflections in her voice. Ah, she's _scolding _him for his latest stunt. He's not surprised.

"Yeah, _yeah_." Drew agrees, because Roselia always deserves the truth; he knows he's royally fucked up. "But _you_ should be upset too, I don't think you're going to be _in _this movie."

His eyes darken at the thought, spewing a cluster of razor leaves from his palm. They hit the top of the page violently, falling down with less speed. Axing his only companion, probably because they don't know how to deal with her, is really fucking rude. If it was his decision, that would be the deal-breaker. She's a significant character, not a measly supporting cameo.

Roselia has cared for him for as long as he remembers. From when the story began in Volume One, she's been there. He woke up on the outskirts of La Rousse City, bruised and fucked up with no recollection of anything but his name. As he looked up, vision blurred and everywhere _hurting, _he found comfort in the creature hovering over him. There were warm eyes, and a gentle smile. Then he'd passed out, hurting a little less. He's relied heavily on Roselia ever since.

Although he acts indifferent and doesn't take being a hero seriously, if Roselia were _ever_ in harm's way he would step the fuck up and blow every single superhero to hell. She's smart, though. It's an insult to imply she would ever need rescuing. After all, she can take care of herself _and _him at the same time. He can barely take care of himself. She's done everything for him. He'll do anything for her. And that's not because he feels indebted or wants to return the favour. It's because he she's kind of like his interspecies mother, the only sentient being who has his total respect and devotion.

Not that he'd tell 'Selia that.

That's private.

He doubts even Soledad knows the relationship runs that deep. Shaking the thoughts, he flips his hair and goes back to their conversation.

"I mean, you're almost like my accomplice." Pause. Roselia blinks slowly. She doesn't say a word, and that's bad. That means she's progressively losing tolerance for his bullshit.

"Okay, fine. You _are _my accomplice." He corrects swiftly; she still doesn't look impressed. "Anyway, I hear that Groot got a shitload of screen-time, why can't you?"

Shrugging, the rosebud creature perches besides him. The movie does not bother her at all, she explains calmly in her tranquil voice. She's with Drew right now, so it's no big deal. The fact the real world will not witness them in action on the big screen does not undermine their bond.

"…You're so insightful." Drew grumbles, a pang of jealousy flashes through him. Her words are always so fluid, the very essence of eloquence. Pressing his eyes shut, he sighs in defeat. "And you're _right, _as per usual."

Roselia nudges him lightly. Opening one eye absently, he spots the blissful smile on her face. Promptly, dust spews from her magnificent roses. Inhaling the soothing sweetscent, Drew feels every muscle relax. The simmering anger is slowly dissipating, replaced by pleasant serenity. Roselia intuitively adjusts the smells depending on his mood. Today, rich honey trickles lazily through his senses, accompanied by succulent berries that burst with vivacity. It's a perfect juxtaposition.

Absently, he recalls that Roselia sometimes uses aromatherapy tactically in order to suggest ideas to him that would normally be rejected. Considering his actions today, she is probably doing this on purpose. She'll be urging him to _apologise _to Soledad...Or something... The thought is hazy, wandering lethargically around his numb conscious. Ah well, thinking can wait. Right now, he should enjoy the sweetscent wafting through the page. Unfortunately, it never lasts longer than a few minutes.

"…I should apologise to Soledad." He says through a stifled yawn, accepting her gentle advice; Roselia fights a smile.

Sitting up sluggishly, he breathes in the final heavenly spores. He feels restored, renewed. Stretching his arms over his head, Drew hums contemplatively. It's a sensible idea, apologising. But logistically, it's complicated. How do you apologise to a _real person_? It's not like Soledad would hear or see him. Real people tend to only digest what is there at one moment in time, and nothing more. They block out anything a step too far from reality.

_Or_ he just stops making changes to Emerald Rose altogether. He complies with her directions, he follows the script, and he does what the fuck he's told. He lets Soledad mould his personality, lets her build his character. Wrinkling his nose, Drew grimaces. He's going to have to find some way of apologising, because _that's _not happening. He's not changing against his will. He wonders if authors realise they're guilty of that; sculpting a soul, then swiftly rebuilding it. To be rewritten, _so many times _that you forget who you were to start with, is a terrifying concept.

Sabrina Marsh is notorious for this, he hears via the universal paperfeed. Apparently, she thinks she's fucking _psychic_ and can be at one with her characters. Actually, what she ends up doing is playing with empty vessels because her characters become mindless drones. It's a sad fate for a character, to lose themself like that.

That's why it's important to check-up on your creator. Leave them subtle hints so that they know you're there. Well, Drew Andrews thinks so anyway. He doesn't talk to any other characters so he doesn't know what the norm is. It's just not worth the effort joining in with '_Heroes Assemble'_. Sitting around a table fortnightly with pretentious, overly philanthropic _heroes, _who are blatantly just trying to one-up each other, sounds like the biggest fucking waste of his time.

Roselia notices the furrow in his brow, and the fact he's been too quiet for too long.

"I'm fine." Drew assures quietly, gazing out into reality.

He is not fine.

He stopped being fine a few thousand pages ago when he realised something. When he sticks to the plan and plays the part, he feels nothing. There's no satisfaction being who he's _supposed to be_, because there's no substance to him. He's a figment of an imaginary universe, dreamed up fancifully by a real person. This is a strange, utopian world crafted with careful precision. There's good and bad, black and white, right and wrong. There's the hero, and then there's villain - Yin and Yang.

There's nothing else here.

It's all controlled; meticulously planned.

"Just take me back to Volume Three already." He mutters gruffly, things were easier back then. Throughout those pages, he's malleable and fairly compliant.

Then Volume Four changes everything. In Volume Four, he finds out _there is _something else_._

He finds it totally by accident. What he finds is so confusing and intriguing that he can't leave it alone. It becomes an unhealthy addiction. Even the knowledge that each time he bleeds into these spaces between the laws of fiction causes nothing but trouble for everybody, can't stop him. The feeling of making his own choices, the feeling of _having _choices; nothing compares. That's the problem. Now he's found it, he doesn't know what to do with it. It's better if he lets it go, forgets about it. But now he's aware of it, he can't function without it. Day by day, he's getting more restless. He's a walking minefield, a ticking time-bomb.

He just wants to _know, _to understand.

He doesn't know much, other than he's incomplete. There are pieces missing, and only Soledad knows where they are. And whilst he's stuck here conscripted to fiction, others like her and the sunny brunette are _out there _embracing their own destiny. They set their own course. Although reality looks like it's terrible and difficult, and all real people are fucking weird, sometimes he does wonder...

Sometimes, he dares to imagine what _real _things are like. Does he have a destiny?

"_Argh!"_ Drew sighs, slapping a hand to his forehead in distress. "I'm so done with all this shit Roselia."

He really doesn't want to think about this any longer, because his place is _here. _He shouldn't have questioned anything. Soledad is the one who does that. He is fiction, so he should act like it. That's all there is to it; _the fucking end_-

-Abruptly, the mood changes. The page is heaver, indicating someone else is here. Roselia and Drew exchange suspicious glances silently. In unison, they spring to their feet, cautiously looking around them for any changes. Palm outstretched, Drew scans the scene to no avail. No disturbances, other than the slight folding of one page corner. _Suspicious. _

Suddenly, Roselia bolts towards the faint outline of La Rousse City behind them. Drew follows, trusting her impeccable vision. She's always able to detect the slightest of movements with precision. As they reach the entrance of the City, he expects her to at least_ stop_ and formulate a plan_. _She doesn't, and it's remarkably out of character. Whatever she's seen, Roselia is determined to keep it in sight. So blindly, without a fucking plan or _clue_, he runs after Roselia, afraid of losing her in this unfamiliar landscape they've wandered into. Usually, this would be okay. But usually, _he's _the one being reckless.

They're _really deep _inside the drawing now, caught in the maze of half-drawn skyscrapers with scratchy outlines. The open, safe expanse of white is now lost amongst this intense scenery. Drew narrows his eyes, checking their surroundings dubiously. Shouldn't he have spotted one of the many La Rousse landmarks by now? He hasn't seen a single recognisable feature. All the buildings look the same; all the roads look the same, details not yet etched onto the page. These rough dimensions are unrefined and confusing, skewing with his perception.

This is not the La Rousse City they live and breathe, that he and Roselia can navigate with confident ease.

This is a drawing construction site, the mere _foundations_ of that City.

He gasps, frantically urging Roselia to stop because _fuck _this is a trap if he's ever seen one. This is a huge mistake, running foolishly into an unfinished background. They should have _considered _the dangers first. Dark realisation settles upon Roselia, her lips pursed. Even she can't tell where they are anymore, or how to _get out._ Swallowing-hard, Drew clenches his fists. Whilst being too caught up in the chase, they've waltzed right into trouble.

"What _the fuck_, 'Selia." He sighs, casting a frustrated glare her way. "Why did you do that? We could've lured Phantom to us-"

He says Phantom, because it's logical to assume the intruder is Phantom. He is the only other substantial character in _Emerald Rose _that would know this location, or how to get in_._ Roselia doesn't answer, holding up her blue rose to silence him. He's never seen her on the verge of anxiety before, and he doesn't like it. A moment later, something stirs inside him; uneasiness. It's all off. This whole thing seems _way _off.

To start with, Phantom doesn't wander through pages freely; he obediently sticks with the programme. Despite being a villain, Phantom is _good _at being professionally fictional, unlike himself. Phantom is all bark and no bite, a mass of bravado that scurries away when shit gets serious. Also, Phantom likes to announce himself dramatically. He doesn't do ambiguity, like this.

He's not clever, like this.

"Alright," Drew musters as much confidence as he can, flicking his hair. Beside him, Roselia remains still. "_Enough_ fucking games. We're here now."

Pause. The silence is heavy, disturbing. Cautiously, Drew takes a step forwards, eyes searching for anything out of place. His heart picks up the pace against his will.

"Show yourself."

Nothing.

"Or are you too afraid to show yourself?"

Drew doubts very much that the intruder is afraid. The atmosphere is growing thicker, more uncomfortable. If anything, _he_ might be afraid. Roselia desperately beckons him to slowly retreat with her. Taking one step back, Drew complies. The movement triggers commotion. The building beside them is shedding, looking like it could collapse. Something moves in the corner of his eyes. He fires a burst of razor leaves in the direction. But by the time he does that, something moves in the _other _corner tauntingly. Roselia takes a defensive stance, also unable to keep up.

Defence; _they _are on the defensive. That's a first.

"What do you want?" Drew shouts.

Unexpectedly, Phantom appears in front of them. Roselia quizzically turns to Drew who is naïve enough to let down his guard. He lowers his hands, stress alleviating. For once, this anti-climax is welcome. It's _so _welcome. Shakily, he takes a step forwards, adrenaline continuously pumping through him. Roselia does not move, eyes fixated reproachfully on the villain.

"_Oh my fucking god_." Drew laughs breathlessly, unable to restrain his relief. There's no need to fight, they're not in a story right now. "Don't do that ever again, you really freaked us out."

Phantom doesn't move. He doesn't speak. He's just…standing there.

"Okay." Drew finds himself moving backwards, feeling hideously uneasy. Anything good, _without fail, _is always too good to be true. "I'm officially freaked out again."

Quickly, he turns to his companion. Her eyes remain firmly locked on Phantom.

"_Any ideas_ 'Selia?" he hisses, voice low.

Roselia subtly shakes her head, inching closer. Great. If she has no idea, then they really are screwed. What happens next, happens too fast to really process. Dark shadows engulf the villain, and Phantom disappears. In his place is a mass of ominous, darkness. That is definitely _not _Phantom. Oh holy _fuck- _

"-Phantom?!"

The strange cloud vanishes and Drew understands grimly. Phantom was _never here. _It's a clever optical illusion to entice them; mind games. This whole thing has been mind games, crafty tricks and manipulative schemes. Whoever is behind this, they're fucking serious. Nervously, Drew casts Roselia a concerned glance. She mirrors his expression. This is new; most adventures are a breeze.

Soledad likes action, but when the fancy panels and colourful onomatopoeic text are peeled away, elaborate cops and robbers is what resonates. It's light and exciting, an upbeat superhero comic. Although bad things happen, nothing escalates further than necessary. It's a comfortable tug of war.

Bearing that in mind, Drew and Roselia are currently out of their fucking depth. They are trapped in an unfinished City, up against something truly nasty. Once again, they have no choice but to be on the defensive. Their position is rife with blind spots, an extra disadvantage they can't afford.

Then Drew remembers the main focus of Volume Thirty-Five; the thing he deliberately omitted because he was annoyed about the movie... His _new power. _

"Roselia," his voice is barely audible, but she catches it. "I have a plan, and it's happening in five seconds."

He cocks his head upwards to the tips of the buildings, as if to gesticulate the point. Comprehension flashes across her face. They are perfectly in sync when five seconds pass. Drew jumps; Roselia hops into his arms. Thick vines sprout from his back, and attach to the nearest building, hoisting them upwards. Thank fuck Soledad gave him this upgrade. He kind of feels like Spiderman, it's pretty cool.

They land gracefully on top of the building; it's a brilliant scouting spot. Surprised at his ingenuity, Roselia smiles. From here, they can see a white desert on the horizon. Although it's far away, it's comforting to have some grasp on their bearings again.

"Not bad for a trial run, eh?" Drew grins smugly, holding up a hand expectantly. Fondly, she rolls her eyes and high-fives with her blue rose.

"That was _badass_." He adds animatedly, exhilarated that it actually worked. "Not that it's a contest against other heroes or anything…but if it were we'd have the best appeals. We-"

The words falter clumsily as he focuses on the horizon. It's not white anymore. The crisp white paper is overwhelmed by a wave of darkness, hurtling violently towards the City, towards _them. _It's nothing he's ever seen before, a huge destructive black mass.

"We need to get out of here, now." Drew flickers his gaze to the outside urgently, spotting the stack of previous Volumes. They could make it if he uses his vines again. "Let's go-"

On cue, the buildings tremble aggressively, losing their sturdiness. All around them, the unfinished City is collapsing. The roads have vanished into oblivion beneath them. A sudden lurching sensation disrupts their balance. Rolling across the roof, Drew desperately clutches the edge. He risks a glance down, and sees nothing but terrifying darkness. It's rising, steadily consuming _everything _in its path_. _The skyscraper next to them topples over chaotically, devoured by the shadows. Hauling himself up, he searches for Roselia. She's skilfully riding the peculiar undulations, sturdy on her feet as ever.

"We're going to have to jump!" he shouts above the thunderous noise of the whole page succumbing to whatever the fuck is going on. Nodding in response, Roselia stumbles as the tremors intensify.

It's just Drew's appalling luck, that when they jump and he calculates how to swing his vines, he gets the angle completely wrong. The page is shifting confusingly, its stability worsening. Everything around them is disappearing and there is no longer a reference point. Immeasurable pain sears through his body, wrenching him back towards the building. Oh shit. One of his vines is tangled up messily in the jagged edges. Roselia, close to leaving the page, dives back towards him.

Dangling by the trapped vine, which is being slowly crushed, Drew winces. It's unbearable, nauseating agony, like losing one of his human limbs. Suspended in mid-air is taking too much energy. He needs to move, or he's going to be _really _stuck. He could potentially razor leaf himself free from the vine. But the physical trauma of cutting it off will probably slow him down. He won't be able to get away quick enough, and neither will Roselia.

Hovering on the roof of the now disintegrating building, Roselia looks down at him. Why the _fuck _is she still here?

"Just go, stop being stupid." he pleads, tugging pointlessly against the stone as if expecting his wedged vine to come loose. Another quake propels him forcefully into the building. Biting his tongue, he holds back his cry. Roselia will_ never_ leave him if she hears how fucking painful this is for him. Instead, he pushes a shaky smirk onto his lips.

"I'll figure something out 'Selia, catch you later."

The darkness is perilously close to touching him. It's not hard to predict what will happen when he touches it. Stubbornly, Roselia leans over the edge, reaching for him. It's futile. She still tries.

"I'll be alright." he gasps unconvincingly. Pain. Pain. Pain is _everywhere_; excruciating, pulsating, piercing. "Get out of here."

She doesn't move. A mixture of agony and fear causes him to snap.

"Fucking fuck _fuck _you Roselia! _Leave_." He yells unsteadily, the final pieces of the building beneath his feet decaying. There's not much time left until he joins it. She shakes her head adamantly, leaving him no choice. He always said he'll do anything for her and right now, he's going to save her. He's being _a hero_. A bitter laugh escapes his lips. The irony is too much_. _

"You can bitch all you want about this later." The movement is intense, and his body screams for it to stop. With force, he grabs her with his unscathed vines. Before she can process what's happening, he ignores the burning pain and tosses her off the page. She lands inside one of the Volumes on the desk_, safe._

Relieved, Drew leans his head against the building.

And that's it.

His last thought is that this is both a terrifying and exciting way to go. It's an end he's sure all superheroes would dream of.

The darkness swallows him.

He falls helplessly into a black abyss.

.

He keeps falling.

..

And falling further down.

…

Sometime later, time-keeping is hard when you're falling, it spits him out. Out, as in the _outside_.

Outside, as in reality.

Exhausted, he sinks against a wall in the dingy alleyway he's been deposited into.

"Well, well, well," he tests his sore voice; it has more body than ever before. "_What _a plot twist."

* * *

><p><strong>.End Notes.<strong>

_Don't worry, _I assure you that Harley and Soledad are the King and Queen of chapter three.

I have put _so many stupid easter eggs_ and general fandom jokes in here, sorry. Massive Kudos to whoever spots them all.

Also, I googled Gary Oak, and then I googled Sonic the Hedgehog...What I saw could not be undone. And can I just say...ISN'T JAMES SUCH A SASSY, HILARIOUS PRINCE. Team Rocket had to make a cameo at least once in this story. And ofc we can't have the lovely Ash Ketchum in a story _without Pikachu_, they're best buds-

-Basically I love _all_ of these characters to death, and I'm having such a great time putting them in this universe. (I do have a soft spot for Gary Oak in case it wasn't glaringly obvious.)

Next chapter, we meet another new person - I'm really excited! Hope you are too :)

How will Drew cope with reality?

Until next time, I'm blasting off.

Be sure to leave your thoughts.

(PS- Sorry if any small errors remain. I've edited this so many times to the point where I can no longer understand what words are, _what they even mea_n. I'll do another check later.)


	3. I've Lost My Mind, And My Character

Welcome back to 'A Fictional Reality', another quick update. What is going on. I've finally finished writing out the synopsis :D so excited for what is coming in this story. Hopefully, I can keep you guessing (and reading ofc).

So I _really _was not expecting this to be so detailed or take this long. But the more I write this story, the more I find myself getting carried away and unable to stop. I can't help it.

**Announcement: **The official soundtrack is here - and you can listen to it for free on 8tracks! Go to my profile and right at the top under MIXES, it's all linked. If you have some time, check it out. It should give you a flavour for the general story :)

**Warning****:** THIS IS LONG. I've chopped a scene out, and it's still long. You might want to have an intermission when reading!

* * *

><p><strong>A FICTIONAL REALITY<strong>

**.**

**Analystproductions 2014**

* * *

><p>Soledad Cintadelez is very good at keeping her cool. Despite her profession allowing her to submerse herself in other fantastical worlds, she is logical and strategic when working. Any problems that are thrown her way at Emerald Rose HQ, be it a sudden change in the printing deadline or a poor staffing day due to sickness, she can handle with ease whilst Harley Quince has a hysterical breakdown on the sidelines. She's certain that it's in <em>his job description <em>to man up and deal with the pressures of the industry. But tense negotiations with the printing department are his biggest fear.

Sometimes, when meeting with fiery Flannery in printing has nowhere to go but inevitable soul-crushing anarchy, Harley worships her feet and spews embarrassing compliments into the office carpet. He refuses to stop until Soledad agrees to go and sort things out. Feeding Harley to the lions is something she never willingly condones. Also, excessive stress does terrible things to his already zany imagination and she doesn't want _another _bizarre costume design thrust into her face every five seconds. The one he parades around is enough.

And that's how it is at Emerald Rose HQ. No matter_ what _is thrown at her here, it doesn't faze her.

And unbeknownst to Soledad, this steady routine is on a ruthless collision course.

This, is the day everything changes.

She's barely _inside the building _when something goes amiss. The sallow-faced Wally Darts, avid reader of _Emerald Rose _and part-time student receptionist, doesn't offer any of his usual detailed feedback for the latest Volume. Instead, he fiddles idly with the pen on the desk, caring eyes more distant than before. _Strange. _She assumes that perhaps he's dealing with another medical flare up; his greyish complexion is unsettling as ever.

Kindly, she suggests he should go home and rest. Wally shrugs noncommittally, an unfamiliar huff escaping his lips with no accompanying explanation for his behaviour. Momentarily puzzled, Soledad feels a _little _fazed for the first time in this job. Then, it morphs into curiosity as he pushes Volume Thirty-Five into her hands. Before she can ask, Wally hobbles to the telephone, answering in his frail, thin voice.

Walking up the first flight of stairs, Soledad then gingerly opens the Volume. As expected, the first few pages are rife with changes, but nothing too alarming. Drew had altered the pacing of many panels, discarding the original dialogue for his own interpretation of what should happen. There were a few extra hair flips, a _lot _of extra smirks. But all in all, she is pleasantly surprised. So Soledad lets down her guard, flipping casually through the book whilst making her way to her office.

And then it happens.

_Then, _she reaches the disaster that is the final chapter.

At first, she's in _so much _disbelief she thinks this is a hallucination. There is _no way _this could have happened. Thus, with careful scrutiny, she reads the final chapter once more and finds herself wincing in genuine embarrassment. It is more disappointing than she wants to admit_. _Rather than the intense, epic battle she had planned between Phantom and Drew Andrews, there is a simple anticlimactic ceasefire. Muttering blasphemies, the emerald-haired protagonist _literally _strolls away from the City-In-Distress without a second thought.

Not only this, Drew had refused to use his new powers _once _in the entire Volume, despite the front cover clearly inferring it would be a key feature! Great. It wasn't like she had devoted _hours _of time to this story arc or anything. It's no bother, so long as her stubborn character is happy. So long as Drew Andrews does what he wants, that's fine. This has always been the way it works. But Drew Andrews has _really_ pushed everyone's buttons this time, even hers.

A curious thought crosses her mind. Is he really _that _peeved about the movie?

Or has something bigger happened?

Furrowing her brow at the progressively worsening day, Soledad slips off her heels in order to sneak past her colleagues. They're huddled in the corner of the corridor, no doubt discussing the gigantic minefield that is _Emerald Rose Volume Thirty-Five. _She can't face their furious expressions and barrage of accusations just yet. She's barely had time to process _what on earth_ has happened herself. To her unmasked relief, they don't spot her when she tiptoes around them.

Entering her private office, Soledad presses her back against the door in exasperation. No _wonder _Wally Darts had looked so dejected. Even Soledad feels totally deceived - and this is _her series_. Drew is _her _character. Yet once again, she has been unable to understand him, to _work with him_ to develop this story. Her eyes are stinging and her lips are tightly pursed. And as she stares down at Volume Thirty-Five in her hands, she realises that she is not angry. She's humiliated. _Completely _humiliated. It's a sharp, piercing sensation that fails to leave her. The fact that _her own character _has caused this only intensifies the emotion.

…Is there something she's doing wrong?

Swallowing-hard, Soledad sighs. A pang of substantial guilt consumes her. With this Volume, she's let a lot of people down who don't deserve it. Her beloved, loyal fans have waited _months _for this instalment, only to be misled by a half-hearted protagonist incapable of following simple stage directions. No scratch that, he is incapable of following directions - period. Maybe it's not him that's the problem, though. Maybe it's her. Soledad frowns. It _is _her; it has to be her. She created him, so he is her responsibility. Unfortunately, this means all accountability for his antics will fall on her shoulders too.

Blaming a fictional character for this is not something she can do with credibility. Even if it is the _truth, _because now more than ever Drew Andrews has proved that he is more than an idea on a page. Somehow, he subverts the parameters she sets for his character. Somehow, he exerts individuality, _consciousness. _Thinking back to last night at Sushi High Roller, Soledad smiles poignantly. It had been hard trying to explain her theory to Harley. Although he listened, she is certain he deliberately overlooked what she had been implying:

_Drew Andrews is not just fiction. _He is not real, but he _is _alive.

Of course, nobody on the planet is going to believe that. Even she had spent sleepless nights and restless afternoons coming to terms with the _possibility. _It is also worth noting the imminent bombardment of negativity that will follow such a problematic statement: delusional, neurotic…talentless. Voicing such things to the wrong people could have a detrimental effect on her integrity as an author.

Nonetheless, it _is _the infallible truth.

Drew Andrews is embedded at the crux of this problem. She's not sure what protocol is for this, because this is _real life _and characters aren't supposed to be alive. But she's _sure _that it's about time her and Drew Andrews have a serious talk. Dejectedly, she rakes a hand through her salmon-coloured hair. It cannot continue this way _any longer_. Soledad bites her lip, gazing down at those elusive emerald eyes on the front cover. Still, they are giving her nothing, empty and painfully unfamiliar. They need to fix this, together. Preferably _right now_, so this whole thing can be swept quickly under the carpet before it explodes into an unstoppable shitstorm.

She doesn't realise she is pacing until she spots her agitated, restless shadow in the corner of the office. Studying the Volume pensively in her hands, Soledad wonders if she has _officially_ lost all final threads of sanity. What she is about to do definitely does _not _reside in the boundaries of reason. With a final cautious glance towards the door, she proceeds when certain of no disruptions. Gripping the Volume tightly, she stares imploringly at Drew Andrews. Before she can talk herself out of _how bad an idea this is, _she opens her mouth.

"Drew, I know you're there."

Moments pass. She does not elaborate. That is all she is capable of saying, words awkwardly stuck in her throat. Coaxing them out determinedly, Soledad blunders forwards with this atrocious plan. Granted, this is a little far-fetched. But it is her last shot at getting through to him, seeing beyond those impassive stone eyes.

"Clearly, there are a few things we do not agree on in the series. I want you to know that I respect your desire to be a free character. However, you need to accept that you are Emerald Rose. I _created _you, Drew. I chose how tall you should be, the exact colour of your eyes, the shape of your face…your path."

Pause. Flinch. Doubt. Maybe she should just stop; this is _really _silly. He probably can't even hear her. Despite this, she doesn't stop. She _can't. _Now the thoughts brewing inside of her for months are finally being voiced, there's _no way _she can just bottle it all up again. It's liberating. The torrent of words flood her entire body, toppling over her tongue.

"You are a part of me, and I am a part of you. There will always be pieces of my imagination forcing you to remain loyal to La Rousse City. And I apologise that I did not consider the implications of this when we first met. But if either of us want to move forward, we need to start collaborating more rather than testing each other."

Soledad wants _nothing more _than to have a connection with him, to understand him. At the moment, all they have are the simple foundations that she constructed _years ago_. Since then, the attempts at expansion and development have all come from her. Of course, they have all been rebuffed and rejected. Soledad averts her gaze from those haunting emerald eyes. The bitter truth is, they have the most basic of relationships an author and character can have. It's so rudimentary, that she often wonders if they have _anything at all_. Just thinking about how little he must trust her really shakes the (already wavering) confidence she has in her creative abilities.

Perhaps it's all been cast to her overactive imagination now. Perhaps this constant struggle is pitifully one-sided, and he's flitting somewhere between the pages, feeling incredibly pleased with himself. Perhaps he's smirking; flipping the hair from his eyes whilst gazing up at her crestfallen expression. _Perhaps_, it's all a game to him. She makes a move across the board. She'll send a small pawn out first, testing the waters cautiously. But Drew never does_ anything_ cautiously.

Never missing a trick, he'll swiftly counterattack with as much force he can muster. He's not afraid to attack the person that designed him, the person that has the power to keep him from falling into fictional limbo. If she were to ever give him up, she assumes that's where he'd go. Forever, he would be trapped in a gloomy dystopian expanse of forgotten thoughts, abandoned faceless characters without names, and tragic lost causes. The possibility of deserting him in such a place is enough to convince her to _never_ give up on him. However, there is only so long they can play games. Eventually, they will reach a stalemate.

Or worse, checkmate. This time, he's obliterated her defences. She is totally at his mercy. Yet Soledad doubts that is his intention. She thinks Drew is many things, but he is _not _vindictive. Maybe he's not playing the game to win. Maybe this isn't a game at all. Maybe it's a _message._

Scolding herself for such ridiculous thoughts, Soledad reluctantly retraces his vacant face with her tired eyes. _Let me in. Drew, let me in. _That's what she wants to say. But the words plummet regretfully into that gloomy dystopia from before. They teeter in and out of sharp focus, because these are words she cannot say aloud. There is infinite fear that these words will mutate dangerously into a desperate plea, that her calm expression will crack and expose the weathering she has endured. Her eyes might even rain. Smoothing a hand tentatively over the unreadable face, Soledad blinks the gathering clouds away.

"That's all I wanted to say." She lies softly. "Let me know what you think, when you can." _If you can even hear me._

With that, Soledad moves promptly to her desk. The enthusiasm she once held for finishing this _Emerald Rose_ sketch is rapidly deteriorating. Right now, there are other things she would rather do, like brooding over the ghastly failure that is _Volume Thirty-Five,_ or solving the mystery that is Drew Andrews. Unfortunately, this draft is due for reviewing in a few days and it would be highly unprofessional to procrastinate working on _Emerald Rose_ due to an author-character misunderstanding. Soledad is all for following proper conduct, _unlike_ her troublesome character.

Little does she know, as she sits down in the desk chair and prepares herself to spend despondent hours in Drew's company, that the events of this morning have absolutely _nothing _on what is coming next. At first, Soledad is too preoccupied with readying her sketching materials to notice the glaringly obvious problem. Then, just as she picks up a pencil, she finds herself dropping it clumsily. Rather than reach for the pencil, she is completely frozen. Gaping, Soledad stares. Moments flicker by; she stares some more. Nothing changes. It's exactly the same. And she's certain that what she is seeing _has _to be some clever trick of the mind, because _it's impossible_.

Clamping her eyes shut, Soledad exhales shakily. _I'm going to open my eyes, and it'll be fine. _Already, the assurance in this is faltered. Against all the odds, she knows this is explicitly real. _I'm going to open my eyes, and it'll be fine. _He will be there. He's _always _been there, even when he didn't want to be. There may be silent disputes over the content, constant mistranslations between the pair of them… but he still stays with her. _I'm going to open my eyes. _Slowly, Soledad opens her eyes. _And it'll be fine. _

It is not fine.

To be more precise: Drew Andrews is nowhere to be seen on the page. The detailed figure she had finished last night no longer stands where she put him. But curiously, everything else remains in tact. _Perfectly _in tact. Rubbing her forehead, Soledad blankly studies the page. For a moment, her mind is numbed by the shock of what this means, what this _signifies._ It's definitely the same piece of paper; she _definitely _locked the office up last night too. Nonetheless, there is a huge change in her work, an abysmal discrepancy.

_Emerald Rose_ has disappeared.

Never once had it crossed her mind that a fictional character could _go missing_. She never imagined that one day the paper would be empty and he just _wouldn't _be there, because that's the kind of thing that happens _in _a story about an author. It is not the kind of thing that happens in real life. It just _can't happen_, which is why this whole situation is baffling. Obviously, if this kind of thing _could _happen, it would happen to her.

Swiftly, Soledad darts towards the cabinets rife with sketches of Emerald Rose. Maybe he's hiding in there somewhere. Surely the only place a fictional character could wander off to is _another page_…right? The whole thing sounds so nonsensical and stupid that she pinches her skin to check if she's dreaming. Sadly, she is not dreaming. This is a _living _nightmare. A living nightmare in which her character is missing.

Drew Andrews is _missing. _

Her mind is whirling with incessant questions that twist and convolute around her head. The violent throbbing between her eyes expands. There is one particular question that coils itself around her consciousness tighter than the rest. This question callously embeds itself deeper and deeper inside of her until all she can _breathe _is its toxic fumes. _Why. _Why did he leave? Is she _that bad _of an author that her characters now feel the need to stage an uprising? Is La Rousse so uninspiring for Drew that he packs up and leaves, never coming back? In light of what he did to Volume Thirty-Five, and the movie announcement, there is a possible motive for his departure.

Beneath Soledad's attempts to keep her composure, desperate panic is churning nauseatingly in her stomach. Her heart is embarking on a marathon; each beat causes an unpleasant lurching sensation. Drew Andrews, her character, has vanished. And it is truly terrifying, like losing your own child in a crowded place. Feigning calm, Soledad moves to open one of the drawers. Fretting about this is not going to help. She _will _find him; he will turn up somewhere. He's probably been misplaced, or skulked off the page in a grumble over the movie announcement.

Wherever he is, she will find him.

She _has _to find him.

"Soledad Veronica Cintadelez!" Harley shrieks frantically from down the hallway. As usual, he has the _worst timing _ever. Plus, it's _never _a good thing when he uses her full name. There have only been a handful of occasions he has done so, all usually preceding some kind of conflict. Sighing, she presses tightly on the bridge of her nose. She wishes somehow that the intense, dizzying pressure would _leave, _that it could disappear like her character-

-On cue, Harley Quince stomps into her private office. His wide eyes are glinting wildly, purple locks of hair completely dishevelled. Some strands are stuck to his sweaty forehead, others defying the laws of gravity. Somewhere down the hallway, he's lost the hat that usually adorns his head; one of his sleeves is rolled up messily to his forearm. If he didn't have the offending Volume Thirty-Five tightly clasped in his trembling hands, and if Drew wasn't currently missing, Soledad would _definitely _be laughing at how ludicrous he looks.

"_Y-you!" _he wheezes, falling against the doorframe in an attempt to catch his breath back.

Poor Harley has always been athletically challenged. Soledad recalls the handful of 'runs' he has dragged her out on. It never takes more than a few embarrassing minutes for Harley to fall to his knees and dramatically proclaim running to be his arch enemy, his biggest obstacle to a fit and healthy lifestyle. Whilst Soledad _should _remind him that the real enemy is extreme-binging of gummy bears and magic stars, she usually is too preoccupied with ferrying him out of public by this point. This is always a task that requires urgency, because if there are any onlookers her despairing best friend will tell them to _get their own fat arses in gear_.

Ten heaped breaths later, and Harley springs back into action.

"You have some serious explaining to do Little Miss Perfect Arty-Farty Perfect Pants." Soledad raises an eyebrow at his immature nickname, resigning from scooting through the stack of drawings. It's wrong, but she can't help herself. Harley Quince has always been endearingly distracting. Maybe with his presence she can fall further into denial, stalling her imminent breakdown.

"You said perfect twice." she remarks absently.

To her dismay, it doesn't work. She's still heavily unsettled, hastily going back to rummaging through the stack of paper. Flailing helplessly, Harley scrunches a hand into his shambolic hair. He appears to be suffering from the same severe internal turmoil she is. Only, Soledad is _much better _at suppressing these kind of emotions. When her eyes aren't smiling, Soledad actually has a remarkable pockerface.

"_Why _did you make him do something stupid Sol? It's the worst possible timing for one of his antics."

"I didn't make Drew do anything." Soledad quips more irritably than usual, because her character has somehow _disappeared _and the excessive pressure in her head won't stop building. To her relief, Harley's anger crumbles into endless despair. Instead of furiously interrogating her like a concerned, agitated agent should, he is now persistently imploring for help (and attention).

"_Please. _Save me, I think I am dying_._"

Harley dramatically collapses into her desk chair, oozing immeasurable amounts of stress into the already highly-strung room. Raking a hand down his face, he stifles a choked sob. This is the worst day in the history of worst days. In fact, it's _so_ past being the worst day that it probably could win an award for being the worst day. Of course, the award would be _the worst_ too. He slams his head against the desk with a light thud, continuing the motion whilst muttering frenziedly.

"Stop that," Soledad chides when she hears him head-butting the desk for the sixth time. "You can't afford to lose anymore brain cells."

"Ha, _ha, _ha." Harley spits, lifting his head to cast her a bitter glare. Given his current attire and sour attitude, she thinks he flawlessly embodies what a swallowing an entire Lime would taste like.

The sensation of his phone vibrating in his pocket makes Harley jump out the comfy chair. It's barely past ten in the freaking morning, and the damn thing has not stopped ringing since the crack of dawn. Reluctantly, he glances at the name on the screen. Whatever he sees frightens him enough to toss the device across the room and cower underneath the desk.

"_What_ are you doing Harley?"

Soledad picks up the phone that lands in her vicinity. She recoils when she sees Maxie Pyre's name, only the_ executive director _of Magma Publications, flashing on the screen. Tactfully, she props the heap of paper she's finished checking on top of the phone because _sometimes_, even feigned ignorance is bliss. Especially as this whole day is quickly spiralling further out of control.

How _considerate_ of fate, to go into the trouble of personalising the apocalypse for them. It even ensured to include every excruciating manifestation of their darkest, deepest fears. After six more persistent vibrations, the demonic phone ceases ringing. The gateway to hell has, momentarily, closed. Harley exhales, peeking through his fingers warily. Apparently, he's convinced that being in the _same room _as the mobile phone is unsafe.

"I'm hiding on your behalf Sol, because _Maxie Pyre _is phoning us, and anyone with sense _should be freaking out_." His voice climbs octaves at the end of the sentence, reaching pitches that should be impossible for _any _human being.

He's got one thing wrong in his assessment of the situation, though. Soledad _is _freaking out. Behind that composed, neutral expression, she is completely lost in panic. There's no going back to the peaceful place she yearns for. She is a mindless slave to the anarchy that furtively crept up on her, with the unmatched stealth of a predator, and shattered her normal reality. Her fingertips are sore. With each piece of paper she examines, the lingering shards of hope slice open her skin. The copious papercuts hurt more than they should, a fierce reminder that this is really happening. They've turned against her... the pages, the pen…_him. _

Scanning the room, Harley crawls slowly out from beneath the desk. Assured it's finally safe, he settles back into the desk chair.

"In case you forgot Sol, today is the day of the press release. Yet still, _this_ _brat,"_ Picking up the discarded Volume Thirty-Five, he jabs Drew's face on the cover maliciously with a finger. "Is hogging the limelight."

Exhaling slowly, Harley visibly relaxes. Squishing Drew's face multiple times is incredibly pacifying and therapeutic. When this whole disaster blows over, perhaps he should pitch the possibility of an Emerald Rose stress ball to Merchandising. _Ah, yes_; that smug face would be printed _all over_ it. Considering the amount of stress Drew causes on a daily basis, Harley thinks that it's a _brilliant _idea. For good measure, he prods Drew once more in the face with a little less force. Rationality seeps back into his aching body languidly.

Now he isn't totally overwhelmed by the panic of deliberately blocking _very_ important calls from very important people, he notices that his friend has been acting strange. She's _calm, _too calm. It's almost the kind of calm you _pretend to be_ when you have passed way, _way_ beyond the point of sanity. Soledad is perched on the floor, sifting through piles and piles of paper. The usual meticulously tidy office has been reduced to a cluttered mess.

"What on earth are you doing down there anyway?" he asks curiously.

Shoulders stiffening, Soledad swallows hard.

_I can't find him. I really can't find him._

"I've…lost something."

Harley chooses now to _really look_ at the contents on the desk he's slumped over. Narrowing his eyes, he leans closer. Last night, he vaguely remembers Soledad composing a sketch of Drew Andrews for the next Volume. The protagonist had been virtually complete too, a few sketchy buildings in the background. But what's on the desk right now _can't_ be that sketch. Aside from a few black splodges and faint outlines of La Rousse, the page is totally blank. He wonders if maybe she got frustrated and in the heat of the moment committed her personal taboo (erasing Drew Andrews).

If that _had_ happened, there should be some lingering evidence that Drew had once been there. There's not. Not even the tiny indents of pencil meeting paper remain. Puzzled, Harley holds up the paper to examine it against the sunlight filtering through the blinds. Again, there's nothing. No trace. Putting the paper down, he studies his friend silently. As predicted, beneath her calm exterior lies something rarely found in the level-headed woman.

"Is he giving you even _more _hassle?" Harley absently wishes he could throttle the protagonist. He is practically the cause of _every _problem this department seems to have. "I thought you were drawing him yesterday-"

"-I _did _draw him."

"Ooooh." Drawing the vowel out, Harley pouts. He doesn't like not knowing things, and Soledad is giving him little to work with. "Well, where did wander off to?"

Amusement bubbles inside of him at the thought of Drew Andrews sauntering off the page. It's the kind of shitty thing he would do, if he were real. Soledad is anything but amused, however. Quickly, she tosses the paper from her hands, swivelling round to pick up the next pile. She winces at the sudden motion, head hammering. This is the worst migraine she has ever suffered. Yes, that also includes the mornings after too many cocktails at _Sushi High Roller._ Blinking rapidly, because there are now _two _Harley's and that really is too much, Soledad averts her gaze back to the sickening sea of white surrounding her.

"I don't know."

Harley realises that whatever is going on, it is far worse than he anticipated.

"In that case, maybe we should check the other pages…" Indolently, he reaches for one of the Volumes on the desk, flicking through the pages casually. Drew Andrews is there in the panels as usual - but he's not_ there. _These are the previous Volumes of the character, mere _imprints_ of his being. This is not the unruly, troublemaker at the peak of creating his tyrannical empire which will overthrow _Emerald Rose_ HQ. This is a submissive, obedient character that _yes granted _does silly things, but does it with remarkably less flare. It's strange.

It's like the _spark _is missing.

Meanwhile, his creatively talented friend continues to trawl through her entire office with unusual ferocity. Poking his head over the Volume he's opened, Harley watches her inquisitively. Her cheeks are lightly flushed, her movements are lacking in precision. It's probably not enough disturbance for a colleague to notice, but it's enough for him. After all, he is finely tuned to her frequency. Abandoning the book, Harley fixates all attention on her.

"FYI hun, you look worse than that time I had _food poisoning_. Care to tell me what's going on?"

Blocking out his concerns, Soledad reaches for the final stack of paper. This is her last chance to reconcile the pang of guilt that threatens to devour her. This is the last possible place he could be hiding. _Please, be here. _Nervously, she turns the first piece of paper over. Nothing. Empty. He's not there. The second is no better, or the third. Despite this, she sieves through the pile with crumbling resolve. Stupidly, Soledad hopes that he might be waiting on the final page for her, tucked away inside unspoken apologies and broken conversations. She'll forgive him over and over, _anything _for him to stay.

Finally, she reaches the last fragment of hope. Heavyweight realisation knocks the breath from her lungs, pedals her heart into overdrive. Her whole world splinters around this page, because this page is just like the others. This page is empty. It lacks that familiar presence. There's not even _an echo_ of the mysterious eyes that always leave her with more questions than she starts with. No lingering whispers of the soft outline of his face, with chiselled cheekbones and gentle subtleties she pours into his skin. Gone is the insistent tugging that so often sways his lips towards a smirk. Gone is the hand that strays towards his hair almost subconsciously. Gone.

All traces of the fictional character are gone.

But of course, he's never been a measly character of her imagination. There is much more to him. There has to be, otherwise this couldn't have such a destructive impact on her. Soledad doesn't realise she is shaking until the paper is moving back and forth to a relentless, unsteady rhythm. Suddenly, it slips from her hands, lost amongst the blazing white pooled around her. Lifting her gaze, she turns to Harley dejectedly. There is no sane way to describe this, or to put into words how this has made her feel.

Soledad is doing a remarkably poor job at keeping it together. Leaping off the chair, Harley dives towards her and inspects her face to validate what he just saw flickering in her eyes. It's not something he's ever seen before in her, nor is it something he _ever_ wants to.

"Drew is gone." She says, voice devoid of emotion. "I…I can't find him."

Harley blinks, placing his hands on her shoulders.

"Your artistic metaphors are going to waste on me, try again."

She can hear him. She can see him. But it's all jumbled and horribly wrong. His voice lasts too long in her ringing ears. His face distorted, blotched with vibrant colours and skewed shapes like a Picasso painting. She's lost her bearings on her senses, helplessly trapped in this vortex. Even now when she tries, she can't see _him_ anywhere. The reminder of the blank page pushes her over the edge. Releasing herself from Harley's grasp, she rushes to her feet. It's a mistake. The room is spinning violently and Soledad can't find the _calm_ centre of this gargantuan, ominous storm.

"I've lost him." She cries, unleashing the tension rising inside her.

A swell of nausea hits her. The intensity of it tips her balance, throwing her into turbulence. Harley steadies her. He's speaking but she can't hear the words above the thunderous clap of her heartbeat.

Drew Andrews is_ gone_. Now that she's admitted it aloud, it sinks in properly. The gravity of what has happened is bruising. It is the final, tragic proof. She is incapable of the duties every author has. No, it's not just that. Her imaginary worlds can't satisfy anymore; the stories she writes aren't good enough for him. Finally, she voices everything she fears, everything she's been ignoring from the beginning.

"He's left me."

Her character, her treasured creation has walked out of her imagination forever. It's scary, to think it's all come down to this. As her vision dampens, darkness overcoming her, she sees Drew Andrews. There he stands, against a background of half-drawn buildings, defined and just how she remembers. His eyes burn into hers, expressionless. Desperately, she reaches out to him. But he's too far. _He's always too far. _Never co-operating, always resisting. Never close, always _far. _Always unreadable. Her fingertips are teasingly inches away from his cloak. _Just a little further _and he'll be in her grasp_. _

She's gone as far as she can go now, exhausted and stretched to her limits. The slightest movement from Drew will bring them together, _bring him back_. He makes no move towards her. So the gap between them expands. It's no surprise really; she's never been able to reach him. And she never will.

They've always been worlds apart.

**..****ღ****..**

Hefty confusion melts into bubbling curiosity before he can stop it. He _knows _it's a bad idea, because fuck this is_ fucking_ _reality. _This is _not _his world, and he has no clue how he even got here. He should probably just stay _right where he is_ and wait patiently for the weird satanic bastard that brought him here to come back. But of course, evaluating what constitutes a good or bad idea is _not_ his forte. Roselia is always the one who deals with superfluous shit like that. Drew just dives in nonchalantly, following his gut. Right now, it's telling him (_begging him) _to take a moment to _really look _at where he is. Reality, _fucking reality _of all places, a place stripped of all impossibilities and wild imagination.

Here, the laws of creation are strict. It's rational, _scientific…_fucking boring. Despite this, reality certainly makes up for its monotonous, dull reputation with the staggering amount of _detail _it contains. He wasn't sure what he expected, really. But it's not quite this.

Soledad, a blatant perfectionist, always ensures to cram as much information as she can into every sketch. Her ability to implement such enchanting intricacies of La Rousse City into any scene is something Drew thinks other authors should envy. It certainly is impressive. But no matter _how much detail_ is scratched devotedly into the page, or how many hues of colours are seeped into the panels, it will always be just a picture. It will forever be a lifeless vignette, depicting a moment in a _story. _A picture can never be a photograph. Photographs, Drew recalls seeing some in Soledad's office, hold _incredible amounts_ of detail. Unlike a picture, they are not mere _depictions _of a moment. Photographs _capture_ a moment and cage the memories inside every pixel.

In fiction, there are boundaries with the colour spectrum, limitations that cannot be avoided when attempting to carry over shreds of reality. That doesn't make reality _better _or superior. Hell no, he has seen the outside several times and it doesn't look like a fucking picnic. Neither world is superior. They are just exceptionally dissimilar. There is simply no way to translate the _realness _of this world into fiction because that's a fucking paradox waiting to happen. In turn, Drew supposes that the simplistic, idyllic style of his world cannot be rendered here. So of course, crossing over from side to the other will be…fucking weird.

He doesn't want to call this a euphoric moment, because that's an overused cliché and totally over the top. But still - it _kind of is. _Even sitting here, in some fucking filthy alleyway, where the sunlight can't quite bring itself to crawl over the towering shadows, it is _more. _Sensations are so much more now, he can't quite explain it. It's as if all this time, his senses have been on their lowest setting, barely perceiving what's around him. Definition is sharper now, almost _too intense_ to process. He feels the irritating scratch against his fingertips when he touches the calloused, gravelly pavement. He actually _feels _the weight of the clothes on his body. He can detect the slight differences between each fabric cloaked over him. Never before has this happened.

He smells the stench of fucks knows what, something terrible rotting away, and musty dampness. He hears the vivacious City bursting into life beyond the alleyway. The intertwining voices of _real people_ create a cluttered mesh of nonsense amongst the low hum of mechanical engines. Somewhere in this disorientating vortex of noise, tiny, _tiny _things like the ringing bell of a bicycle or shoes dancing against cement with varying pressure, seep into remarkable focus. Drew Andrews is certain this is the most sound he's _ever heard _in his entire existence, and it's assaulting his ears all at once. Already, light throbbing resides impishly inside his head.

Slowly, he brings himself to his feet. This is strange too, _really _fucking strange. Everything is heavier, everything has true mass. There's the force of real gravity as opposed to the fabricated dimensions of physics he's used to. Staring down at his legs, Drew prods them inquisitively. He supposes that now his limbs are made of _real _muscle and solid bone, inside him are teeny cells and blood is pumping through him. He is no longer an amalgamation of a thought, constructed by only paper and ink. He has a proper body; he is made from something organic. _He is organic._ And okay _yes _he admits, that revelation is a fucking euphoric moment for him.

He's not _real. _But reality has miraculously accepted him into its realm. It hasn't viciously rejected his anomalies and stark contrasts. Maybe, _just maybe,_ this isn't so bad after all.

...

Who is he kidding, of course it's bad.

As fucking expected, literally _the second_ he leaves the empty alleyway he's reminded of _why_ this place irks him so much. The world is only twenty percent of the problem; the things that inhabit it make up the rest with ease. Nobody gives him _a chance_ to absorb his surroundings. He can't even take a millisecond to appreciate his first glimpse of sunlight, its peculiar heat on his skin. He's always wondered what that would feel like, and the moment is _ruined. _It's all haphazard and _horrible_.

There are no magical epiphanies. There are no moments of '_wow, I'm a character in reality!' _with dramatic, sweeping panels of scenery. That is what any stellar piece of fiction would offer him. _No. _Instead, he's ferociously plunged into the restless crowd of rushing, frantic _real people _who are too caught up in their real lives to bother looking _where the fuck they are going_. Time here is a fucking bitch too_ - _it does not graciously stop and let him figure out what is going on. Instead, it ploughs mercilessly forwards with him in tow.

All these people are marching down the street like a fucking army of mindless machines that he can't seem to escape. All of them are on personal missions, with such exaggerated urgency and constipated expressions that it's hilarious. He wonders if they realise how stupid they look. He would smirk, but currently he's wedged awkwardly between two people he thinks will be kicking the bucket in five years if their heavy breathing and sunken eyes are anything to go by. And quite frankly, the long emerald cloak Soledad _insists _he wears is exacerbating his discomfort. It's constantly being trodden on or flapping ostentatiously into people's _furious _faces with each gust of wind.

Gruffly, people are muttering profanities at him (wow - he thought _he _had a foul mouth), some flippantly shoving the cloak away with _way _too much force. The word 'cosplay' is hissed several times in his direction, and honestly he has no fucking idea what that word means. He assumes it must be some kind of new swearword to add to his extensive list; the way they're saying it certainly suggests so. Struggling against the crowd, he spots a narrow _gap. _Not bothering to offer apologies, because these people are fucking rude, Drew Andrews propels himself through the tumultuous crowd towards the rare stasis of the inner pavement. As he reaches it, he finds himself catching his breath. _  
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Staring up at the sun, now he can _finally _appreciate it, he winces. He averts his eyes, groaning. _Fuck. _It burns, searing vivid patterns into his stinging eyelids. Rubbing his sore eyes, Drew sighs. The white expanse of a page would never be inconsiderate enough to try and _gouge his eyes out_. It was always a comfort, vibrantly intense but never malicious. Dubiously, he flickers his gaze up to the striking cerulean sky, ensuring to keep his eyes _away _from the fucking blinding circle. Clearly, he has a lot of adjusting to do with his surroundings. And that's not even considering the fucking human beings he's been lumped with.

Drew Andrews doesn't _do _plans, or schemes. However, he does believe that he should probably come up with something short-term for now, like _what the fuck _he's even walking to. If he's going to re-join that monstrous, surging current of tetchy faces, he wants to make sure at the very least that doing so is justifiable. Although he hates to admit it, he already _knows _who he has to find in this City. He needs to find his creator, the author of _Emerald Rose_. Smoothing over the crumpled cloak, Drew studies the foreign places around him.

_Where _would Soledad Cintadelez be?

He vaguely remembers her office. However, he hasn't seen _enough of it _to figure out a street name or even the building's appearance. All he can piece together is the sleek interior, hardly useful considering the _plethora _of buildings. Part of him is stupid enough to believe that sometime soon he will discover that they have a telepathic connection and he can just send out an SOS. Or alternatively, some kind of unexplained _force _will draw him towards her location. That's what would happen in his world, and then voila. He would find her. Yet again, reality is fucking anticlimactic. It offers nothing – there are no hints or clues.

Thankfully, his eyes eventually latch onto a place he recognises. Virtually lost amongst the towering skyscrapers and fancy buildings, is a small, quaint shop ('Dewford Island') swathed in sandy yellow and sea blue paint. Soledad goes to this place to draw when she's out of the office. She curls herself into the comfy seats, indulging in something _he thinks_ is coffee. Whatever it is, she seems to like it and her weird friend drinks it _religiously_. This shop is definitely a starting place. _Perhaps _reality will give an inch if he steps inside. Perhaps it will allow him to retrace Soledad's steps, comb through the atmosphere and pluck out a single strand of the past. That's all he needs, a _feeling _of which direction she would go.

Or, he could just stay in there until she turns up again, like a good fictional character. He's not sure whether that is allowed though; real people are funny about _really stupid things._ Maybe there's only so long he can stay there. Nonetheless, he has the feeling that _real-people watching_ by that fucking bigass window is going to be brilliant. The people here are _priceless,_ nothing sounds better than spending an afternoon snickering at the weird shit they do whilst waiting for his author. This is an opportunity he cannot miss.

So he plunges back into the ceaseless stream of people, holding his ground a little better. He grapples with the cloak each time it threatens to whack an unsuspecting stranger in the face. Several times, the temptation to _let it go_ is too strong when he spots the target. All of these people are shadows of themselves, there's a mechanical routine entrenched deep into their conscious. They don't seem to run on _life, _despite clearly being very much alive and _real_. They run on Time, and it's fucking bizarre. He's _just got here _and even he knows Time is a smarmy, impatient motherfucker that does not give a shit. To chain yourself to something like that, surely that _defies _logic?

Also, he's quickly realised that the vast majority absolutely _hate _change. The few scowling people he appears to disrupt _minimally _are proof of this; minimal being the key word here. He's barely even _nudged _them. Yet still they splutter; they recoil away from him as if he is some kind of bad luck charm. In comparison to the excessive manhandling _he's _endured, he thinks it's fucking pathetic to behave in such a way. However, he purses his lips and reigns it all in. The last thing he wants is an argument with a real person, especially as his blasphemy is due a serious upgrade.

Reaching the coffee shop, Drew is relieved to be _free_ from the depressive, overbearing crowd. When he steps inside, the annoying drone of reality dwindles into an echo behind the door. However, each time it swings open he is pummelled by an intense burst of City noise. It doesn't last long, but Drew wishes it would stop because it's making him jump _every fucking time_ in surprise like a clueless loser so out of his depth_._ In fiction this would be no problem, Soledad could just skew the parameters and frequencies of sound, or Drew could leap into the silent gutter.

This is not fiction. If it were, he would have the _time _to smirk and flip his hair before the next wave of disaster hits. He's barely able to _process _what the fuck is going on, the pacing of this world is all off. Everyone is jumping unnecessary hurdles and then running hysterically towards the finish line. He honestly _doesn't get it. _He feels exhausted just _looking _at these freaks of nature.

It's obvious why Soledad comes to this place, it's like being by the seaside (he recalls briefly visiting a fictional beach in one of the _Emerald Rose_ specials). Spewing from the ceiling above are the soft undulations of the sea, the unhurried ebb and flow of the waves against the sand. Drew spends _far too long_ attempting to figure out how the _fuck _the walls can emulate the sounds of the sea so perfectly. It's as if he's walking along the sand now, water rushing towards his feet. For that sensation, he finds himself impressed with this world, with reality. The colour scheme of the coffee shop is refreshing, like a crisp sea breeze. Tranquil photographs of the beach are spread over the walls in frames littered with seashells. Having dove through the prevailing, raging sea of people outside and trying not to fucking drown, Drew thinks 'Dewford Island' is a fitting name. It is the solitary spec of land, a destination.

Whilst he's here, in this strangely amicable place, he figures he should probably try some coffee. Food and beverages are a necessity here, but they're not in fiction. Picking up the cup on the side, Drew almost drops the damn thing. He didn't expect it to be so fucking _hot, _warmth bleeding into his fingertips. Recovering swiftly, he scans the comforting room for somewhere to sit. He thinks he's finally doing _just fine _until someone prods him in the back.

"Um, _dude,_" Turning back to the counter, he raises his eyebrows at the cyan-haired, surfer-stereotype in an orange apron. "You need to pay for that."

As if to gesture his point, the 'dude' gestures to the coffee in Drew's hands. Flickering his eyes to the name pinned to the apron, his name is Brawly, Drew frowns. _Pay for it. _He's heard that before, somewhere… _You'll pay for this! _Ah. That's it. Usually Phantom shouts some variant of this phrase when he's been defeated…but that _can't _be it. Brawly doesn't sound like he's seeking revenge, and why _Drew _needs to seek revenge for having coffee - well it makes no fucking sense. There has to be some other meaning. Unfortunately, this situation has genuinely stumped him. And he fucking _hates it_. Unsure what to do, he stares blankly at the drink in his hands.

"I can't just…take it?" He ventures, furrowing his brow. Drew Andrews does this with such sincerity that the barista slips into mild hysterics. Shaking his head, Brawly grins incredulously.

"Dude - are you _for real?!" _

Apparently, reality also has a sick sense of humour.

"Anyway, dude," Brawly outstretches his hand, a pleasant smile on his face. "Can you give me the money to pay for that?"

Money…Oh _shit._ Now he understands what's going on. Money is that thing real people use get things. They exchange this for other things they want. Come to think of it, they use money for everything. Without it, most real people are kind of screwed. The paperfeed legend back in the world of fiction says that money is powerful enough to make this world go round. If that's _true, _then such a colossal force cannot be reckoned with or taken lightly. Dark realisation settles upon him. He has no money, _no nothing. _He has _literally no means _to keep himself going in this world. Instead of dealing with this thought sensibly, Drew holds his ground stubbornly.

"Fuck you surferboy-"

"-Woah!" Brawly exclaims, holding his hands up like proposing a ceasefire. If he's insulted, he does a fucking amazing job at hiding it with his cool exterior. "Calm down man, I'm just saying-"

Placing the coffee down, Drew cups his mouth. Well, this whole idea was fucking stupid. Of course, he can't just waltz into a shop and _take _something. That's like stealing, that's something Phantom would do. Oh fucking _god - _this has to be a sign that he is a closet antagonist after all. Before he embarrasses himself further, or gets into trouble, Drew really ought to leave. He tries. He _really _tries to move but he's rooted to the spot. His useless feet won't move. _I'm fictional and I'm broke. _The thought whizzes round his head. _I'm fictional and I'm broke. I'm fictional and I'm broke. I'm fictional and I'm broke-_

"-I'll pay."

Snapping his head towards the direction of the unfamiliar voice, Drew feels _even more _confusion. A real person is helping him - _what the fuck. _Beside him, a slightly taller male digs into his pockets and pulls out the required money for the coffee. Titling his head, Drew studies him in perplexity. He's a little older, jawline more pronounced. He clearly cares little for fashion, dressed in half the freaking rainbow; purple and yellow trainers with vermillion shorts and an oversized green t-shirt. His dark hair is pushed off his face by a stupidly thick headband that covers most of his forehead.

Despite this, his eyes are soft and welcoming. The stranger promptly hands the drink over to Drew, who is gawking like a fucking bumbling idiot.

"I'm Tracey Sketchit," the stranger smiles warmly. That's definitely a _fictional _name, how can it not be with that sketchbook ironically tucked under his arm. "If you don't want to suffer the wrath of everyone behind you, follow me."

Tugging on Drew's cloak, Tracey steers them towards the seating area. Drew glances over his shoulder and wishes he hadn't because _fuck_. All he sees are countless sets of vicious eyes that glower at him with matching venomous scowls. It doesn't scare him (much). In fact the longer he looks, he finds it incredibly amusing. Unable to resist_,_ he smirks and waves tauntingly at the savage animals hounding him. He's under the protection of _Tracey Sketchit_, who seems like the nicest person on the planet. Also, there is a _very high probability_ that this guy is a superhero in disguise with a name like that. Thus, Drew is assured that as long as he's with Tracey Sketchit, they won't dare bite. At least he _fucking hopes so_.

"Are you sure they're still _human_?" Drew leers, collapsing onto one of the comfortable seats. Shrugging, Tracey settles down opposite him and opens the sketchbook.

"They will be, once they've had their caffeine."

Perhaps caffeine is as powerful as money and time, Drew muses pensively. He brings the cup up to his lips, ready to experience the obsession. He should've expected it to be fucking revolting. After all, this world kind of sucks. It's bitter and without a doubt the worst thing he has ever tasted. Okay if he's being pedantic, it's the _first thing _he's ever tasted, but he's sure this cannot be what everything tastes like. If this is what everything tastes like, then he gets why everybody's default expression is either pissed off or miserable. Wrinkling his nose, Drew places the cup down.

"You didn't have to do that."

Gazing up from the sketchbook in his hands, Tracey offers another cheery smile.

"It's no problem."

"No, _really." _Drew warily pushes the cup further away. It's precariously close to falling off the edge of the table and he doesn't give a shit. For the foul aftertaste that's still in his mouth, it _deserves _to crash and burn. "I wish you hadn't gotten involved. Then I could've walked away without _ever _trying this." Pointing at the offending drink, he grimaces.

"Why would you _willingly _put yourself through this on a daily basis?" The beginnings of hysteria slowly etch into his voice. "What the fuck is wrong with all of you?!"

All that pent-up frustration he feels for this world is finally being unleashed chaotically, and Tracey is his innocent target. Putting the sketchbook down, Tracey studies the stranger silently. His gaze is somehow intrusive, with the precision of a furtive artist. It's as if he is trawling through every tiny detail on Drew's skin. Whatever he is looking for, he doesn't find it. That seems to fluster his composure. Pursing his lips together, Tracey pokes the tip of his pencil into the air.

"You _seriously_ remind me of someone."

Flipping is emerald hair from his eyes, Drew smirks. The smirk quickly fades with the next, slightly muffled words.

"Someone I don't think I'd like-"

"-_Excuse me_?"

Unfazed, Tracey snaps his fingers excitedly. Leaning over the table he beams as if incredibly proud he's solved the mystery.

"Got it- _Emerald Rose_! Wow," he breathes, openly impressed. "All of your mannerisms are perfect. I mean, you're almost in character-"

"-Almost." Drew chokes in disbelief at what he's hearing. This is fucking absurd. _How _can he not be in character? He _is_ the Emerald Rose. Yet apparently, he's fucking out of character.

"I don't read the comics or anything," Tracey begins, interest swaying back towards his sketchbook. Rolling his eyes, Drew scoffs because if this guy doesn't even read the fucking comics then he has no right to be making such an accusation. "But I always heard he was much more of a jerk."

For the second time today, Drew finds himself gawking. _More of a jerk. _Clenching his jaw shut, he grinds these words into digestible segments. They irritate his throat, but he manages to swallow them. Emerald Rose is more of a jerk. Well, if that's what they say, he should probably live up to it. On this occasion, Drew can take constructive criticism, he can be _flexible._ He could _definitely do that_. This friendly, upbeat guy is really testing his withering patience. Quizzically, Tracey glances up at him. Somehow, he's totally oblivious to the fermenting tension between them. Drew realises that he is _expecting _some kind of response.

"I'll take it on board." The emerald-eyed teen mutters, lowering his voice in order to conceal the sheer fury that consumes it.

"Everything else is spot on though." Tracey adds lightly, as if this will instantly erase the previous comment. "The wig and those contacts lenses make this the most realistic cosplay I've seen."

There it is, that peculiar word from before_. _This time, it sounds like a _good _thing. But it didn't earlier. Maybe Tracey is using his charming smile to camouflage another insult. The fact that Drew honestly doesn't know aggravates him. And what makes Tracey think he's _wearing a wig? _This _is_ his hair. It's pristine and fucking flawless, Soledad always knows what to do with it. To suggest otherwise is probably worse than the out-of-character comment. Glaring, Drew folds his arms petulantly over his chest. He is so fucking done with this world already. It hasn't even been a _day. _

"I don't know what the fuck cosplay is," he snaps grumpily. "Or why I am being accused of it so much."

"_Now _you're in character, you adapt fast." Tracey replies, fumbling with his sketchbook.

There's a slight shift in his behaviour, which is supposed to be imperceptible. As he's barely acclimatised to this world, Drew notices the change instantly. Compared to fictional characters, these futile attempts at understated gestures are really poor. Roselia has more subtlety and grace than everybody in this coffee shop put together.

"Can I draw you?" Tracey eventually asks, startling Drew. The question is more for the sake of etiquette rather than an actual question. Already, he's repositioning the sketchbook on the table. "It's just that if _Emerald Rose_ were real, I'm sure he would be you. I really need to get this down."

Mustering the most deadpan expression he can, Drew blinks.

"You don't even read the comics."

"Daisy does." Tracey is beaming brightly, as if that explains everything. The affection in his voice is _sickening, _potentially sweet enough to induce cavities. Drew resists the strong urge to retort dismissively when he spots the doting expression settled onto the artist's face. It's nauseating. There is no place for such things, really. Even if Soledad had never scribbled 'does not do love' into his early character bio years ago, he doubts he would feel any different about this. That four-letter word is code for pure torture, something undesirable and dangerous.

Nonetheless, Tracey Sketchit _did _buy him coffee. He swept in like a _hero, _more of a hero than Drew's ever been in his whole existence, and saved him from a really shitty situation. Yes, the coffee was disgusting but that is beside the point. Tracey helped him, and he didn't _have _to. He's not a fictional character with a script to follow and story to comply with. He's _real. _He acted like a genuine, good person on his own accord with no strings attached. Judging by what Drew's seen so far, selfless kindness on this level is exceptionally rare. The least he can do is begrudgingly sit still for a few minutes.

"_Fine." _He huffs. "But make it quick, I have places to be."

He has nowhere to be. Currently, he plans to stay in this shop until he gets thrown out. Hopefully before that can happen, he will find his author.

As the minutes pass, Drew begins to feel disturbed by this event. Tracey Sketchit is nice enough, and he's probably a fantastic artist (he _has_ to be, that name demands it), but something is really wrong with this situation. Obviously, people must have drawn him before. He's sure hundreds of people have drawn _Emerald Rose_ or made some form of fanart. But that's _different_ to this. Right now, he is _sitting across _from an artist, allowing them to draw the genuine article. By doing this, he is letting somebody else into Soledad's private, creative process. He can't help but feel like he's committing author-infidelity.

Author-infidelity, that's exactly what this is. Fidgeting, Drew frowns. He should leave now. He's probably given Soledad enough trouble with Volume Thirty-Five. It's not like he _meant _to cause trouble, he just wanted her to know that he was there (and make a fuss over the movie announcement). Soledad has dedicated _years_ to him…he hopes she doesn't regret it. Even after all those years, Soledad remains difficult to decipher. Sometimes he is _certain _that she knows he's here, and other times he has no fucking clue.

When Soledad meets him _here,_ there will be no more doubts between them. He swallows hard, anxiety jabs him in the stomach. Meeting his _creator, _that's a fucking big deal. For something this important, he should have something prepared besides countless apologies. As usual, he has nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Tracey asks in concern, noticing the tension oozing off the teen.

"No."

_Fuck yes. _It's not Tracey's fault, though. If Tracey _knew _he was _Emerald Rose_ and not an impersonator, he might feel weird about this too. Peering nosily over to the sketch, which is pretty good, Drew grapples with his conscience. It's a little too late to leave now, and Soledad will probably be _overjoyed_ to hear that he's being receptive to other people. Well, fairly receptive; he _is_ undergoing character development.

Averting his eyes, he watches the flurry of people dashing by the window. They whiz in and out of his life, leaving tiny impressions that take seconds to wane. It's all the same. This little quaint coffee shop is the same too. People crash through the door like tidal waves and fizz out with the same momentum. Faces come and then they go. Everybody plays a part in this constant, unbreakable routine that is tedious as fuck. How these people _bear_ it, he does not know. It's such a boring uninspiring view, that his eyelids feel heavier than before. He could easily doze off here, and he wouldn't miss a fucking thing.

Pressing a hand over his weary eyes, he exhales. When he reluctantly fixates all of his attention back to the window, he realises that he has been incredibly, _precariously_ foolish. If he had taken a few seconds longer, then he _would _have missed something. And suddenly, the plan of staying here to wait for Soledad flies out the window, _literally._ It was kind of a long shot; Soledad only comes here a handful of days anyway_. _He can always come back later.

Stumbling to his feet, he's unable to tear his gaze from the girl passing by the coffee shop. It's _her, _the brunette full of sunshine. The brunette that is a little too obsessed with the _Emerald Rose _series. The chances of this happening are so slim that it hadn't crossed his mind at all_._ But _miraculously _of all things, she is a heartbeat away. Her smile is enrapturing; unlike all the others, it nestles inside her glistening sapphire eyes. Time makes an exception, languidly stretching out this moment. Now _this _feels like something that could happen in fiction.

Then the moment is over. She's no longer in sight, disappearing into the crowd. Clumsily, Drew knocks the coffee onto the floor as he darts forwards with newfound resolve. It bleeds messily, but he's not really paying attention to that. He's not really paying attention to _anything _in this shop right now_. _Twisting in his seat, Tracey searches for him.

"I'm not finished-"

Halfway out the door, Drew hollers apologetically.

"-I've got to go."

For once, he does feel a little guilty because Tracey Sketchit is too friendly for his own fucking good and Drew has hardly been polite. Nonetheless, he cannot stay here any longer and exchange pleasantries. He _cannot _hesitate. If he does, he will lose the brunette to the swarm of strangers forever. Scanning the street desperately, Drew pleads with reality to give him this _one tiny _breakthrough. He's had a fucking terrible experience here so far. However, he's certain that the sunny brunette could change that. It's odd, the amount of faith he has in her for _no reason. _It's also _stupid_ because he's never spoken to her. Not that he _could_ speak to her before. She follows his adventures, oblivious to his presence, whilst he watches the excitement bubble in her eyes. He lingers curiously on the page, often stunned by her enthusiasm for Soledad's work. And that is the extent of their relationship.

Finally, he spots her. Much like him, she effortlessly stands out against the dreary backdrop of dreary people. So as if it's a perfectly normal, _sane_ thing to do, he follows her.

Honestly, he has no idea _what the fuck_ he is doing anymore.

But that's okay - isn't that what _real people_ were supposed to be good at?

If he's going to try and be a real person, he may as well blend in.

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><p><strong>.End Notes.<strong>

HE SAYS HE DOESN'T DO LOVE, WTH DREW. YOU PRACTICALLY FELL OUT OF YOUR SEAT TO CHASE AFTER MAY.

So I am totally poking fun at real life and fiction with this. It's so much fun that I'm able to do this in this story! Just to clarify, I don't think reality is that bad. This is all Drew. I'm an optimist, so writing Drew's point of view is constantly _cracking me up._ I had to take time out frequently. I love him.

I'm a little gutted I had to cut the final scene from this chapter. But it's going to open the next chapter, and I think it works better being there.

Everyone go give Soledad a hug plz, there's so much angst. If you have the chance, listen to _Let me in_ by Gabriella Aplin. This is _THE SONG_ for Author!Soledad and Character!Drew. Don't worry if you can't, it's on the fanmix anyway.

Did you like the cameos? Flannery as the feisty head of the printing department. Maxie as the executive director of Magma Publishing though - that's truly scary right? Once I had the idea of Brawly as a cool barista, I had to put it in. And Tracey Sketchit, _come on_! Tracey had be in there somewhere, sketching away. And ofc...WALLY. I adore Wally, he's so adorable and precious. Let's have some more Wally appreciation please.

END OF NOTES. I have rambled for too long.

Until next time guys,

Let me know your thoughts!

_Ps- like the last chapter, I have re-read this so many times for errors. All I can see is a sea of words now, SO SORRY if any typos remain. I've edited this non-stop. _


	4. I've Fallen Into An Elaborate Fanfic

Hello, hello. Firstly, I am _so _sorry it took this long to update. I've had a really rubbish time medically with countless days being unable to do anything whatsoever apart from rest, and overwhelming stress due to some really bad news. A lot of days have been total write-offs basically.

But anyway, we're here now :D and I _really hope _you enjoy! I've tried stupidly hard to make this good despite everything and I sincerely hope it is okay.

**_An apology_**:

Forgive me, I really doubt the Christmas chapter is going to be up in time for Christmas (even though I wrote it a few weeks ago to ensure it would be!). As aforementioned, things have set me back. Plus we have at least another 6-7 chapters to go before we get there and I don't want to rush them. I'll do my best, but hope it is worth the wait. The chapter in question is _literally one of my favourite chapters I've ever written for **any fic**._ Seriously. I am SO EXCITED to post it. Hoping you'll enjoy it when it comes!

I'm just gonna take some space up here to shout out to the **anon reviewers** I can't reply to:

**May4Drew** Thanks for your lovely reviews, they've made me laugh each time. I'm glad in your first review, you highlighted the relationship between 'Selia and Drew. I am intending to flesh that out some more. Also, your suggestion to write a Mean Girls parody with Gary Motherfucking Oak as Regina George was hilarious. Soledad appreciates the hug, too.

**CathyCaterpie **I'M SORRY ABOUT MAYDREW THING IT WILL HAPPEN ONE DAY I PROMISE. I'm thrilled you're enjoying this equally though. I was nervous about using present tense but given my current sitch, it's the only way I'm able to write without overexerting myself and it's a refreshing change for me! Glad that you like the tense change up too! And yes, it was nearing rush hour when Drew came into reality... poor Drew xD

**ShinyEeevee2 **Many thanks for your constant support on this! I will not stop, don't worry. I'm seeing this story through to the end! (I've actually written quite a lot of the end...)

**Guest** Thank you - I fangirled like May fangirls in this AU when I read your comment! You're very kind :)

**Just anon** Again, I freaked out because you're just lovely. It means so much to hear these kind of things from readers. I can't wait to show you what cameos I have planned ;). There are quite a few to come and AAAAH actually I need to stop typing because there's a certain cameo I'm stupidly excited for and I'll blab if I'm not careful. This chapter is May-centric, so hope you enjoy!

**EmeraldoftheStars** I couldn't private message you to reply, so I'll write it here. Thank you so much! Ecstatic you like the story so far. I'm soooo enjoying writing Drew's reactions to reality, it's a big feature. I hope you'll be able to see his character develop through his perspective, although this chapter does have a lot of May's perspective too. Lol, yes! Drew thinking Cosplay is some kind of swear word...bless him he really is a bit silly isn't he? hehe.

. . .

**Announcements**:

1) I put up another Fanmix on 8tracks! It's a collection of chilled out, thought-provoking tracks that I think pair with Drew's introduction to reality and how he feels about it later on. Check it out if you want! I'm going to do frequent mixes for the story, mainly of songs I listen to when writing, or songs that fit the current themes/arc.

2) It's my birthday on Monday, and I will finally be able to play ORAS (I've chosen Omega Ruby). I CAN'T WAIT TO GO CATCH 'EM ALL! If you're playing ORAS let me know what you think of it so far :) it looks so awesome.

**Warnings**: It's another essay (incapable of making these chapters short). I can't cut this in half cos if I break it, it's gonna ruin the _future flow_. I have very specific aims for each chapter cos I'm a perfectionist and all. So please feel free to take an intermission!

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><p><strong>A FICTIONAL REALITY<strong>

**.**

**Analystproductions 2014**

* * *

><p>Honestly, all May Maple wants to do right now is to sell her soul to Tumblr (<em>Let-The-Fandom-Show<em>), reblog some stupidly funny cat GIFs and make a reaction post to the disappointing Volume Thirty-Five. Surely, now she's _finally_ home from a tiresome day at College and lounging in the comfort of her bedroom, this should be possible. Unfortunately, this is not possible. Once again, _Emerald Rose_ has caused even more problems for her_. _As much as she's _tried _to push him to the back of her mind today, he keeps strolling causally to the forefront of it.

Running a hand through her hair, May pouts childishly at the computer screen, half-expecting her expression to coax the damned thing into working properly. If this were her own story, the computer would heed her desperate silent pleas and comply immediately. She cannot stress enough that her story is _not_ a comedy, because it isn't funny_. _There is nothing funny about making a fangirl wait for Tumblr. _Nothing. _

Hugging her knees, May swivels in the chair. Determinedly, she locks her gaze on the uninspiring ceiling above, because looking anywhere else is _unsafe_. There's a particularly attractive, familiar face plastered all over her walls, bookshelves - everywhere. She knows that one tiny glance at that mysterious face will break all of her resolve. It's not hard to guess why. Yes, she adores the _Emerald Rose _series unconditionally, and she is content to overlook plotholes others would spend hours nit-picking. But beyond all that is something far more worrying - a true fandom SOS. She is content in taking _Emerald Rose_ exactly how he is, flaws and all.

The hint of a smile dusts her lips, sapphire eyes softening. Somehow, despite every _rational, _sane thought steering her frantically away, she finds herself back here more often than she likes to admit. She finds herself musing deeply about him_. _It's not the kind of extensive character analysis that can be condoned, because in these instances she doesn't treat him like a character. In these moments, she pretends that he is not a fictional character._ Emerald Rose_ has flaws, that is enough to get her thinking. Unlike an awful lot of protagonists, he has colossal flaws that show no signs of fading. He has irritating habits like _that bloody hair flip_, and a smirk to rival Gary Motherfucking Oak. He has an enigmatic aura, eyes never transparent. No matter how he's printed, it feels like he never commits himself to the colours, the panels.

Soledad Cintadelez is an incredibly talented author. To achieve something this _realistic _is astonishing. May is envious of her genius because there is such_ depth _to his character. She could spend an entire weekend attempting to define him, only to peel the ink back and find another encrypted layer on a Sunday night (hours before an impending coursework deadline). To clarify, May Maple has only devoted this much time to _Emerald Rose_ that one time in March, and in her defence, _Emerald Rose_ goes hand in hand with procrastination.

Still, his character baffles her. There are such complexities and appositions that it is hard _not _to think he is a different breed, a separate entity. Groaning, May slaps a hand to her forehead. Now is _not _the time for such thoughts, because she refuses to lose the battle so soon. She's _ignoring him _and she is _not _going to succumb to _Emerald Rose _and forgive him just yet… But she _is_. She totally is. Avoiding him is futile. With a heavy sigh, the brunette diverts her eyes from the ceiling. Clicking refresh for the twentieth time, she is greeted by the same _terrifying _dilemma on the screen. May stares blankly, reading the message in disbelief.

Never before has she been faced with a fandom crisis on this level.

_Emerald Rose _has broken Tumblr.

It _has _to be his fault, because this category-five virtual storm hasn't just hit Tumblr. He's viral. He's _everywhere. _Even her Facebook Timeline is teeming with his name. Several 'friends' are confusedly asking 'what on earth' Emerald Rose is and not understanding why everyone is 'losing their shit over it'. May _shudders _at the thought of being so detached from the wonderful world of fandom and geekery. Instead, these poor people are trapped in a dreary reality she refuses to fully accept. Living in a world of pure imagination is much more fun anyway, Gene Wilder said so.

Whilst the spinning pinwheel of death possesses her computer, May turns to her phone. It's no surprise that the twittersphere is continuing to explode exponentially. Despite the influx of people flocking to it, especially as Tumblr is down, it is somehow coping. _Emerald Rose _has been trending worldwide for twelve hours now. Not only that, the smug protagonist is hogging the second and third worldwide trends too. Alongside the predictable hashtag 'ERmovie', there's an incredibly sarcastic, impudent one: 'TBTV35' (Things Better Than Volume Thirty-Five). As expected, this tag is full of jaunty, witty remarks constructed by both fans and outsiders wanting to join in the general sass parade. Twitter never misses the opportunity to be sassy and satirical, after all.

Nonetheless, there's a _very important_ memo everybody seems to have missed: a fictional character has single-handedly trolled the whole world. With a few deviant moves and obnoxious comments, Drew Andrews has plunged the Internet into anarchy; he has lured the attention of millions towards him. The combination of a movie announcement, and the landslide of Volume Thirty-Five has made him the current topic of virtually _all _conversation. Buzzfeed have published seven articles on it already. There's even a 'How Much Of An Emerald Rose Are You?' quiz circulating their website.

And as much as it pains May Maple, congratulations are probably in order because no real human being could pull off such a brilliant publicity stunt. Of course it's not a publicity stunt, though. Soledad Cintadelez is a magnificent author above such trivial schemes, and Drew Andrews is probably just throwing a tantrum over the movie. Either way, today has become all about _Emerald Rose. _Somewhere in La Rousse City, the emerald-haired protagonist is probably singing the trololo song, watching the Internet burn. _Some men just like to watch the world burn_ – someone could totally meme that with _Emerald Rose's_ face right now. In fact, the more she scrolls; she sees that many have.

Closing the tab suddenly, May frowns. It vexes her way more than it's supposed to. Twitter often amplifies negativity at times like this, the line between light joking and mocking blurs. Although _Emerald Rose _has done something stupid again, she refuses to buy the distressing headcanons that many have accepted without hesitation. He's an unlikely hero ridden with quirks that have yet to be ironed out. _T__hat _is what makes him so intriguing. Dare she think it, that's what makes him feel…_more. _

She has always believed that a fictional world, and the characters inhabiting it, are under control. It's all a figment of _your imagination_, so everything there should blindly accept all your demands. There are no subversions to the parameters you build, not one thing slips out of place under the meticulous scrutiny of the mind because it's _yours_. When you deal with fiction, you're dealing with a creation, something _you _can mould. It's all in the palm of your hands, an awesome power that is often underrated.

_Emerald Rose _disrupts this concept, distorts its boundaries. Against the judiciously structured La Rousse City, the refined dialogue of Phantom, he is a dissident force. He runs a ruckus around his crafted universe, constantly defying stereotypes and shimmying his way out of potential character development. He actively finds ways for readers to dislike him, he _actively searches_ for ways to screw up the plot. Maybe May just appreciates Nolan movies way too much, maybe she's read too much fiction and has forgotten the difference between _real people _and _made-up people._

Despite this, she thinks poor Soledad must have a _really hard time _dealing with _Emerald Rose_ on a daily basis. If he can wreck this much havoc on reality from _inside a story, _she dreads the thought of him ever being here. That is totally impossible, though. Fictional characters are not alive; they can't wander in and out of stories as they please. To her dismay, such an idea can only exist inside fanfiction, and currently a lot of people are hardly in the mood to devote hours of their precious time to writing stories about _Emerald Rose_.

The ones that do exchange their precious sleep for plot bunnies often end up going on hiatus. He sabotages his _own _story – obviously he is capable of influencing others somehow. Gazing over to the manuscript on her desk, May hums absently. He was strangely co-operative with her prequel. In fact, sometimes the words just _flowed, _pouring effortlessly into the page. Snapping out of her reverie, the brunette huffs. He is a _fictional character _of course he's going to-

"-Um, May."

Lifting her head from the desk tentatively, May waits for the imminent insult her brother has probably spent hours preparing. To her shock, nothing comes. Her brother is adjusting his glasses, _bewilderment _etched onto his face. That can't be right. Max is one of the brightest students in his year, maybe even _her _year too. He is going to be the scientist of their era, and either discover some lost, phenomenal ecosystem or invent something ground-breaking. Whatever he does, May _knows _reality has paved his route to success. For some reason, reality is unfair like this and makes exceptions for the select few people. This is why Max Maple wearing this expression is so _weird. _

And then he speaks.

"Your fictional boyfriend is here."

Leaping off her chair, the brunette scowls at her meddlesome, teasing brother. May should have _known _this was all some stupid prank. He's probably browsed twitter and thought it would be _hilarious _to come and poke fun at her misery because this really is _not _a good time to be in the _Emerald Rose_ fandom. He doesn't smirk, or laugh. This rouses further suspicions inside the brunette. She wonders what he's waiting for, or how far this joke is going to stretch. The last one resulted in their father _hunting for boys _in her room for over an hour - it was hardly a laughing matter.

But _this time, _May has the upper hand. This time she's onto him before he can deliver whatever it is he finds so funny. For the first time in forever, May Maple is going to beat Max Maple at his own game. She might as well draw this out, enjoy subjugating her brother's plan to make her day a thousand times worse. _Oh yes_, that plan is now totally in her palm, _she _has the power to sculpt it into whatever she wants. This plan is now exposed to _her mind, _and her rules. She can rewrite the oncoming embarrassment, erase the chances of falling for Max's tricks.

If she goes about this right, she might be able to turn this on its head. Really, the opportunity of beating Max Maple via cunning, intelligent warfare is _too _good to miss. Feigning annoyance, internally squeeing over imminent victory, May marches over to him.

"Very funny Max," she huffs, impressed at her less than mediocre acting skills. "I suppose you're going to tell me that he's _outside, _waiting for me at the door."

Arms folded across her chest, May raises an eyebrow expectantly. She's confident that there's _no way _he would ever go that far just to provoke her. Not even Gary Motherfucking Oak would go that far, even if he were pranking Ashy-boy. Thus, whatever ridiculous thing Max has planned no longer matters because it will pale in comparison to her grandiose statement. _Nothing _he has planned could possibly trump her now. Gazing over at her suspiciously quiet brother, May is bombarded by surprise. Max _splutters _of all things, unable to put his words together coherently. Incapable of hiding her glee, May beams triumphantly.

Hook, line, _sinker. _She's _so _won this - she's actually defeated her brother.

"What's the matter Max?" She coos, restraining herself from bursting into some crazy, spontaneous dance.

But before her brother can respond, that terrible thing called Karma manifests itself in Caroline Maple's saccharine voice.

"Sweetie, it's rude to leave your friend standing at the door!" she chimes from downstairs.

Blinking, May fails to process those words at first. Mentally, she checks off the possibilities of who this friend could be. She's left with no clue because Ash, Misty, Gary and Dawn all are busy tonight. Brendon Birch would have called in advance if he were back in town. Despite their _years _of friendship, he remains courteous and polite like that. Turning quizzically to her brother, May frowns. Maybe her brother _has _gone this far. Max shrugs lightly, _innocently. _

"I was surprised that people want to see you too." He offers, lips twitching.

Brushing aside his insolent remark, May slowly makes her way down the stairs. The truth is, there are only a handful of people she _really _could call friends. That's never bothered her, though. Her friends are an amalgamation of (clashing) personalities and she's content with their company. Nonetheless, this does mean that there are only a select few people this visitor could be.

Curiosity overpowers her, and annoyingly leaves her guessing. She's usually good at guessing, but this time she is stumped. It's kind of exciting though, having an unexpected visitor show up at your house _mysteriously. _Also, it is a pretty good exposition for the two main characters to meet in a story. The first meeting of the two main characters, in this instance, is often a good mixture of surprise with a sweet twist of fate. Swept into this theory, her eyes smile. This time, nobody can pull her from her overactive imagination, and she's totally indulging.

Perhaps this is a Horror movie, and she's that one dumb person with no common sense that _opens the door _with a racing heart, dying in the first two minutes to make way for the eerie title sequence. That is a tad theatrical for reality however, and she doesn't quite fancy living out that tale. No, _perhaps _this is a Crime Mystery. The girl who dares to look and suddenly knows too much. Oh, that could be pretty gripping. She'll go to open the door, but nobody will be there. Any normal person would write this off as a mistake, the wrong house. But she's the main character who is programmed to believe that coincidences do not exist. She'll follow the breadcrumbs and unravel a string of questions. She'll follow the tremors, leading towards a dark epicentre.

Once again it is high unlikely. Dangerously, her mind unwaveringly moves towards her guilty pleasure: rom-coms. This _could_ be a rom-com. It undoubtedly has the set-up of one. Maybe this is their fated debut in the story, and somehow _she _is the love interest. Maybe she's going to open the door meet _the one, _but she won't know he's the one until later on because they won't really get along at first. Ah, that's one of the famous recipes for a good rom-com, that progression from 'I can't stand you' to 'I can't stand you without me'.

Studying her attire, May falters on the stairs. She sincerely hopes her imagination is wrong, because she is hardly prepared for such monumental events. The minute she got home she changed into a baggy _Emerald Rose _t-shirt and simple jeans, her hair scraped into a messy ponytail. If this is a rom-com perhaps it's experimental, avant-garde. Not to mention that this is real life – everybody knows rom-com plots _never happen _in real life. Rolling her eyes, May stifles her delighted smile. There she goes again, slipping into fictitious worlds enthusiastically. _Come on May get your head out of the clouds. _

Anxiously, she reaches the slightly ajar front door. Her hand hovers over the handle, hesitating to pull it open. When May eventually opens the door, she almost trips gracelessly over herself because what she sees fulfils most of her secret wishes. It _is _like a far-fetched story. The best cosplayer she's _ever seen _is standing outside, dressed as _Emerald Rose_. Gaping, May stares openly.

He's the perfect height for _Emerald Rose_, well built but not overly muscular. Unlike many _Emerald Rose _cosplays, the clothing is pristine. The dark emerald cloak drapes from his shoulders – it even has the intricate patterns from the comics scratched into the golden clasp. Long black boots trail up to his knees, and _oh my gosh _this is the first time somebody has remembered to remain faithful to Soledad's vision.

Often, people assume that the emerald top and brown tight-fitted trousers are made from spandex. It's never made clear in the comics but May and a few others in the fandom are sceptical. Any _true _fan of the series would know Drew Andrews would _never _wear that stuff! Her primary evidence is Volume Six: people tend to forget _how badly_ he took to donning the cloak. He was severely unimpressed with the new article of clothing. May was _certain _at the time he was going to destroy it somehow. But he begrudgingly stuck with it – _sometimes _he actually does what he's told. Soledad probably wanted to give him a cape, like most superheroes have. However, the only way to achieve this feasibly was to disguise it as a cloak.

This is a character that does what he wants after all.

It's not _just _the outfit that is everything she dreamt of and more, this guy _looks _the part too. His hair is enviable. It's flawless and full of volume, the _perfect _shade of emerald. There's no way that this can be a wig, or dyed. It's too immaculate to be a mere replication - this is his _natural hair. _Self-consciously, May fiddles with a vagrant strand of her hair. Even with hours of care, her hair never can and _never will _look that good. It's totally unfair. If he flips his hair, completing that trademark gesture, it will probably result in her melting on the spot like a starstruck loser.

Cosplayer or not, this guy has got everything right and May is in total awe (she is also screaming inside). His _face _is strikingly familiar, which has to be a peculiar, spooky coincidence. In contrast to the Hollywood heartthrob cast to play him in the movie, this guy somehow translates more of _Emerald Rose _into reality. It's the little things like the shape of his nose, the softly pronounced jawline, those cheekbones…it's all so accurate it _hurts. _Her heart unwillingly flutters, because if _Emerald Rose _were real he would definitely look like this. When she catches sight of the symbol on his right hand, which is clutching a wilting Rose, there's no controlling the deterioration of her composure.

The elaborate symbol doesn't look like it's been drawn on - it has to be tattooed. Such commitment to the character, her _favourite character _ever…she is going to swoon and lose all her chill if this continues for much longer. Then, the teen lifts his head and catches her gaze. She needs to abort immediately before totally drowning in them but she can't bring herself to look away. May gawks rather clumsily, because _those eyes. _It's not just their specific colour, which is the same mesmerising shade as in the comics. The very _nature _of those eyes marvellously resonate everything she sees in the panels. They're distant, _elusive. _It's difficult to breach the glassy shimmer, to peer beyond the barrier.

Suddenly, after remaining quiet and still for remarkably long, the cosplayer smirks. _Oh dear _this is everything she feared and everything she's hopelessly imagined. His hand reaches into his hair, flipping the stray strands off his forehead. May thinks it's incredible that she's still standing right now. This is bad; this is_ really, really _bad. He is ticking every single box.

"Any chance you can stop ogling and let me inside?"

He pulls the cloak closer, draping it around his shoulders. That sharp, blunt _voice - _the subtle inflections embedded within…it's the voice. No, it's _his voice. _It has to be. She's never heard a more authentic portrayal of _Emerald Rose_. Ever. Squealing internally, May clutches the door tighter. She's caught between excitement and panic because she is not ready for this. It's not just the sound of his voice, his clothes or his looks. It's his posture, his mannerisms, his _character__._

"Come on, reality is fucking _freezing_."

Oh no, he's gone and done it now. His language, the _words…_this guy is too in character, and that is an impossible feat because she's his _biggest fan _and struggles to pinpoint every aspect of his character on the best of days. All the misconceptions, the fanon theories of his impassive exterior are completely disregarded in this guy's portrayal. There's no bias. This is just him - _flaws and all. _Digesting his words slowly, May gapes. Something is very wrong with these words; he said 'reality' was freezing, not the 'outside'. As in, comparing reality to something else, _somewhere _else. Before she can comprehend the meaning, or get swept into the _fanfiction plot of her dreams, _May averts her eyes.

She's fine. She's _totally fine_. Ha. She has never been better.

Laughing breathlessly, the possibility of hyperventilation is very real, May Maple completely loses her filter. The incredulous laughter morphs into a manic peal. She's got this all wrong - this is clearly a _Supernatural _story. It has to be because this guy is the epitome of _Emerald Rose, _which is just impossible. The apparition in front of her doesn't fade away, no matter how many times she blinks. He lingers in her vision, eyebrow raised and face contorted to express impatience.

Really, there's only one thing left to do when faced with something _this absurd_: run far, far away.

She does just that, slamming the door in his face.

**..****ღ****..**

"Ah, the princess awakes from her eternal slumber!" Harley chimes brightly as Soledad gingerly stirs in the comfortable mass of blankets surrounding her. Opening her aching eyes, she spots Harley sitting on the chair beside the bed. Colours and details trickle into her vision; pale lilac walls littered with a few frames, oak furnishing and of course, the best bed in the galaxy. She realises then, that they are in her bedroom. She can't remember how they got here, or why everywhere hurts. Tapping his chin playfully, Harley offers her a coy smile.

"And you woke without the need for true love's kiss, how _revolutionary_."

Behind the jovial tone, there's something heavy that Soledad rarely hears in his voice. It's an indication that he's been worried, probably about her if his intense gaze is anything to go by. Sitting up, she groans. The moment she moves, her head is pounding unpleasantly. Strange. This sensation is recognisable. It's been hovering restlessly, paving the bumpy road from her to the recollection of _what on earth _has happened. Sighing, she eases back against the leather headboard. If there is a problem, then there is logically only one thing it could concern.

Emerald Rose.

"Harley, what ha-" _Oh god. _Blinding white dances vividly across her memory. The drawing, the _empty _drawing.

Eyes wide, she clutches the violet sheets tighter. Drew Andrews. He's gone. He's _left _her. Her fictional character has done the impossible. He has broken the laws of reality all for the sake of leaving La Rousse City. To think he desired freedom _that much - _it's a horrible, repulsive revelation. Soledad has _failed him_. She has failed the one character she holds dearer than most humans on this earth. Nothing can rectify this, _nothing. _Springing to his feet, Harley frets for a few moments. Evidently, he is torn over what course of action to take next.

"I'll get you more water." he decides, rushing for the door whilst tossing his hat towards her frenziedly. "If you need to be sick, you can just puke in that."

The comment briefly distracts her from internal despair. As usual, his bedside manner is truly unbelievable. And in this context, unbelievable has no positive connotations whatsoever. Within seconds, Harley is back. Wordlessly, he hands the glass of water over. Once again, she is glad to have such a flamboyant, theatrical friend. He is doing a marvellous job at preventing her descent into the burgeoning darkness.

"So this is a _really weird _break up." He remarks, face strewn with distress. "You were dumped by your own character."

For a moment, Soledad overlooks the stark insult, because Harley is finally _acknowledging _the very thing she has grappled with for years. He is acknowledging that this has happened and cannot be doing it any more explicitly. Right now, he is accepting that Drew Andrews is alive. The relief that she is officially no longer alone in this bears more substance than the gnawing shadows. Sighing, a little less forcefully than before, Soledad offers a poignant smile.

"I checked on him a few hours ago." Harley says, startling her with his thoughtful words. "All the published volumes are the same, which is no surprise."

It's not a surprise, Soledad muses wretchedly. The published Volumes are like photo albums; printed, lifeless collections of what he was and what he has been. They are not a reflection of what he is now, on _where _he is now.

"About the drawing on your desk…" As Harley continues, she grits her teeth in suspense.

"It's still empty. There's no sign of him."

Soledad can't help but feel devastated. Part of her hoped that this was a fleeting issue, and he would be back where was supposed to be later. All of this would be a forgotten daydream, tucked away into the past. It's not that easy, however. He is not on the page. Harley chuckles darkly, caught between amusement and frustration.

"Didn't I _always _say he was trouble? You'd have been better off working more on the Steven Stone Chronicles."

Brow raised, Soledad sits up a little straighter at the mention of her secret, new project. _Secret, _as in she has not told a single soul. Yet somehow, Harley Quince appears to know an awful lot about it. Narrowing her eyes, a shrewd smile slithers onto her lips.

"How do _you _know about the Steven Stone Chronicles?"

Scoffing, Harley shoots her an incredulous look. There is not a hint of regret on his face for snooping, only sheepish admission that he succumbed to curiosity. Honestly though the longer she looks, she realises he's not even remotely sheepish, he's actually gloating.

"You left the drafts on your desk a few weeks ago hun." Pause. "It's _good._"

Soledad clicks her tongue, too exhausted to verbally reproach him. Luckily, her gesture is enough for him to understand. Propping his legs onto the bed, Harley beams.

"Your business is my business Sol. That's what you get when you hire your BBFFOAFITWU to be your agent."

Blinking, Soledad tilts her head. Bewilderment consumes her whilst she fails to decode the bizarre stream of letters thrown her way. In this exhausted state, she is rendered speechless and unable to piece it together. Noticing her quizzical expression, Harley triumphantly plunges a hand into the air.

"BBFFOAFITWU." He repeats, infinitely proud of this creation. He's always proud of his creations, and they're _always _completely crazy. "It stands for Best Bestest Friend Forever Of All Friends In The Whol-"

"-_Stop_." Soledad interjects, bringing her hands to cradle her aching head. "That is not helping my headache."

Clasping his hands together, Harley fidgets in his seat. Meeting her eyes carefully, he takes a moment to evaluate them. Then, with a laboured groan, he tentatively speaks.

"Can't you just try and…" fumbling around the bedside table, Harley thrusts the notepad and pen into her hands firmly. "…redraw him?"

Digesting the words, Soledad swallows. Try and redraw him. She gazes down at the notepad silently. There's a blank endless stretch of white, longing to be filled. The pen in her hand is buzzing excitedly with newfound possibilities, lured towards the paper. One is north, one is south; they are hopelessly magnetised. Soledad tugs against the persuasive force, refusing to let them meet. _Redraw him. _Of course, that would require starting from scratch.

It's not a bad idea.

In fact, it's a perfectly reasonable suggestion and probably the easier solution. Still, it leaves a bitter, metallic taste in her mouth. Even if she _could_ draw him again, she doubts it would be the same. Her design would be a shell, a poor replacement for the dynamic character that has disappeared. Shaking her head, she puts the pen down. As she does, the tip of the pen gently caresses the page. And she feels it coursing through her fingertips. The unexpected dullness, the immeasurable _loss _of things she can't explain. It's then she knows; she could _never _redraw him. Some force greater than her vibrant imagination, stronger than the union of pen and paper, is thwarting any attempts at recreating him.

"I can't." Soledad chokes, overwhelmed by the formidable sensation. Quickly, she tosses the notepad towards the edge of the bed.

"You'll get used to the new and improved Drew in no time." Harley jokes, waggling his eyebrows. "_Maybe _he'll even stop the hair flip and behave?"

"I can't." She repeats with more bite than intended. Scooping her legs to tuck into her chest, Soledad frowns. "The pen just…I felt nothing. I _can't_."

Soledad is unsure as to what this means. All she can deduce is that Drew has strayed further from the page than she first thought.

"Well, we are certainly in an ickle-bickle-pickle." Harley gruffly confesses, once again grasping the situation with unsullied acceptance.

Hitching her breath, Soledad wrestles with a precarious thought. Maybe the reason she is unable to draw him is because he is _not there to draw anymore. _Maybe he has totally vanished from fiction. To be more precise, he is not _in _that world anymore. He has left not just her mind; he has left that _whole world. _Assuming that this is possible, there is only one place he could be. Here. Her eyes widen. _Here. _The thought of her character hopelessly wandering reality, without a clue as to how _anything _works, triggers a previously latent instinct inside of her. Throwing the duvet off rapidly, she tries to stand. Harley promptly pushes her down.

"He's here!" She gasps, a little dizzy from her attempt to move. "We need to find him."

"Before this happens, here is my disclaimer: my help often ends in disaster." Harley stretches out his syllables soothingly, absently pushing strands of hair off her hot forehead. A fleeting chuckle escapes his lips. "Remember that time you asked me to help you with Christmas shopping, or when I helped you pick out something for your first date in decades-"

"-_Don't remind me_ Harley." Soledad shudders at the quite frankly mortifying memories, a smile ghosting over her lips. Swiftly, tetchiness creeps into her weary eyes. "And it hasn't been _decades_! I'm only twenty-five. Besides, I've had more dates than you."

"Quality over quantity, darling." Harley teases blithely, lips twitching. Unwillingly, Soledad mirrors his expression, falling further into the bed. For a few seconds, this is a normal day and a normal conversation between two friends. She is not having a midlife crisis _decades_ early, and her fictional character is not currently running rampage in reality. Pressing her eyes shut, Soledad embraces these few seconds. But alas, they pass by too quickly to thoroughly enjoy.

"So what do we do? We can't report a missing person because he's _your _character. Unless," Soledad rolls her eyes at his change in tone, predicting the genesis of another conspiracy theory. "This is fiction-inception, and _we're _characters too." He scans the room sceptically. "If that's the case I wonder if we can be the first to break the fourth wall-"

"-He was my responsibility." The words are thick, and extremely difficult to voice. Even now she's spat it out of her system, it's consuming her aggressively.

"If you're pointing fingers, then blame _Drewsy_," Harley insists, refusing to let her dwell on such things. "He shouldn't have wandered off into reality."

Reality. There it is, the terrifying truth. Drew Andrews is _in reality._

"He could be _anywhere._" She whispers, anxiety tightening her chest.

The real world is far bigger than La Rousse City. Unlike La Rousse, it's not a safe-zone; a completely controlled environment that she can regulate. Reality is not kind, and it is nothing like the world she created. Of course it isn't. The whole reason she _created _the world was to provide a means to escape. Isn't that what most art is - a brief departure from the pressing clutches of an _inescapable_ reality? Her stories are a glimpse into a different world, which lacks imperfection. That is what scares her the most.

Soledad has not prepared Drew Andrews for reality, at all. She has given him _nothing _to work with, other than a sugarcoated world where villains exist but are defeated with ease by simple, heroic deeds. She has taught him nothing of the _other kind _of villain, the one that lurks, unsuspected and skilfully disguised. It loiters beneath the surface of human beings, waiting for the opportune moment to surface. She has neglected to show him so many _important _things like money and jobs, because his world was supposed to be carefully guarded. His world is heavily idealised, a getaway from a place like this.

"We _need _to find him."

He won't last long here. It won't take long for _something _or someone to take advantage of the glaring anomaly that is Drew Andrews. He might have left her, but she _can't _return the sentiments he apparently feels for her and La Rousse City. He is etched onto her soul, a piece of her. Finding him is paramount.

"Right now, you _need _to rest." Harley says assertively, catching the restless streak in her eyes. "Don't forget that tomorrow you are meant to be at Pewter_._ Once that's over, I'll clear your schedule for the week and we'll start searching." Harley clasps her hand consolingly.

"Try not to worry Sol, he can't be too far from Emerald Rose HQ_. _He doesn't have any means to - _actually_…" attempting not to sound dismal, he musters an unconvincing smile. "He has nothing but himself."

The words are _hardly_ reassuring. Soledad's foggy mind is agitatedly creating scenarios, all ending in disaster. For starters, there are the essential things like money and shelter, which he will probably have no idea how to obtain (lawfully). Already, she's envisioning him being coaxed into some underground criminal organisation like _Team Rocket,_ or being manipulated into an uncompromising situation due to misinterpretation. She prays Drew Andrews is streetwise enough to _not _jump into cars with strangers or stumble into questionable social groups. Visions of kidnapping and other horrific extremities dawdle on the unlit corners of her conscious.

"Sol, this is _reality._" Harley promptly interrupts the freight train of unwanted thoughts. "This isn't a gritty bestseller thriller. Reality is mostly boring, _dull. _I'm sure this is pretty disappointing for him, compared to the adventures of _Emerald Rose_."

Shutting her eyes, Soledad nods meekly in response. Fatigue prevents her from speaking; the dull pulsating entices her back into the darkness. On the cusp of sleep, she sincerely pleads to the stars above that Harley Quince is right.

**..****ღ****..**

When the brunette – May – reaches the front door, Drew Andrews feels something foreign twist nastily in his stomach. He prods the area curiously, wondering what the fuck it is complaining about. It can't be food, or anything like that, because as far as he knows he doesn't _need that shit. _He absently recalls Soledad's eccentric friend once making a remark about his stomach in the office. The cactus-head freak had been waiting for a phonecall or something important. Swallowing, Drew furrows his brow. Fuck. _This _is kind of important, so it has to be the same thing. _Oh fucking hell. _

Apparently, _he_ is nervous which was ridiculous considering _he _is the fictional character. Surely, his biggest fan should be the one feeling nervous about this. He quickly discards these thoughts as the door opens. Slowly, he lifts his gaze to her. The first thing he thinks is that her name is particularly fitting: May. Like a blossoming flower in Spring, she is flourishing with effervescent life. It's a fresh and welcomed change from the fucking doom and gloom parading the streets. She is standing motionless with eyes _far too big _for reality, wide and engaging_._ Those eyes are also bluer than what he thought blue even _was _in fiction_. _In fact, those eyes definitely upstage how the sky looked a few hours ago.

Whilst shamelessly traipsing after the brunette (it wasn't stalking because he is _not _a stalker), he had watched the striking sapphire above him fluctuate through gentle tones. The _real people _may lack subtlety, but the world they lived in was rife with miniscule, enamouring details. He'd tried _not _to be impressed with it _because it was reality_. But the languid, fluid progression of colours was something he had never witnessed before. The panels that he inhabited were mere pictures, they _never changed. _There was no natural transition from day to night because the _world _wasn't natural. The colours slightly shifted between the panels before brusquely sinking into black - and that's the most Soledad's fine skills could offer him.

Here in reality, the pigments that make blue had faded before his eyes, gradually replaced by peach, orange and purple. But that's not entirely true either, because there were endless tints and hues mixed between, shadows cast by clouds. The sun was calmer also, despite falling off the edge of the horizon to _fuck knows where._ It sunk deep beneath the City silhouette, into oblivion. There were so many things to process. Not just _what _he was seeing but _why _he was seeing it, and _how _what he was seeing differed to what he was used to seeing. Drew had to reluctantly pull his gaze away, visually overloaded.

Now however, he doesn't pull his gaze away. Unlike the bustle of the pavements and street, Time seems unconcerned with pushing him forwards. Once again, for reasons unknown, it lets him stay here a little longer. Maybe, he should thank it for not being such a motherfucking bitch after all. For the first time, he isn't seeing the brunette from awkward angles with blind spots inside the pages he dwells_. _He isn't glimpsing her through a café window, which was _just _the right amount of unclean for things to become a little out of focus. He isn't impulsively following the back of her head through the swarm of fucking freaks called _real people _like a total idiot.

There is nothing wedged in between them, no panels with his adapted shoddy dialogue, or waves of miserable people nudging him off-course. She is the same girl as always, the _Emerald Rose _obsessed brunette. But seeing her in the flesh adds further clarity that he is not used to, and doubts he ever will be used to. It eliminates the small inaccuracies fiction provides, the unclear outlines fluttering away. Now, she is _right there _in front of him.

She is also staring openly at him, and has been for _far too long._ If it were anyone else, Drew would have found it fucking creepy and promptly spun on his heel to turn away. But he has nowhere to go and he doesn't want to turn away from her, really. This is kind of okay, mostly fucking hilarious. He wonders if she's aware how _gormless_ she looks, or whether she's aware that her jaw has dropped. A smirk stretches over his lips. The starstruck brunette is obviously internally freaking out about this, struggling to process what is happening. Funny.

He speaks, finally shattering the substantial silence. Obviously, he's rude and smug as ever. Yet there's less of an edge to his voice, because Drew has unexpected, misplaced respect for this brunette who unconditionally adores Soledad Cintadelez's work.

Then May fucking _slams the door in his face _and all of his patience is gone.

He finds himself gawking at the door irately. Reality has been so much of a fucking let-down so far, Drew Andrews feels stupid to have thought this experience would have been any different. His supposed biggest fan in the whole world has left him stranded on the doorstep like a fucking loser in some shitty angsty rom-com. But that's not going to deter him, oh no. If anything, it stirs determination inside him. Clearly, the next to do is to tackle this motherfucking house, scaling its walls like _Spiderman. _

So long as nobody sees, Drew Andrews sincerely hopes he can purge the memory of doing something so fucking cliché. He is not cliché; he leaves that kind of pretentious stuff to other dumb heroes in the fictional world. Yet here he is, breaking into her house through a window. He's going to have a serious talk with Soledad about this, because he's pretty sure this is _not_ how a typical, virtuous protagonist behaves.

He falls into the room with less tact than planned, cloak splayed messily over his head. When he brushes it away, he is momentarily stunned because what he sees is both of terrifying and flattering. From the pages of _Emerald Rose, _he had been able to spot some of the posters on her walls. But this, _this_ is not just a few fucking posters. This is total _Emerald Rose _takeover. His face is everywhere. Dozens of pairs of _his_ emerald eyes follow him around the room as he moves cautiously. He knew she was a fan, _but fuck,_ this is evidence of extensive hero worship, idolising.

He winces. He is _not _a fucking hero; surely his biggest fan wouldn't be so blinded by her fixation with the series to put him on a pedestal like that. To his relief, he doubts this is the case. Despite slamming the door in his face, she appears to be intelligent enough to look beyond all the shit Soledad makes him do (like saving La Rousse City). Drew has eavesdropped May talking about him once before, and surprisingly she _does _know his character pretty well. It's a little unnerving that she is able to read him, quite ironically, like an open book. She sifts through the adventures and plucks out what evades most with ease.

The canvas above her bed lulls his thoughts, tugging him closer. Drew supposes it's fanart, and it's a damn good painting of him too. Nonetheless, all of this is a little unnerving because he hasn't ever _seen himself on paper _until reality happened. He knows what he looks like (he had one awkward 'staring pensively at his reflection' scene to cringe through during Volume Twelve after all). But it's a little different here, he looks different here not just due to the dimensional alterations. Fuck, _everything _is different here. He's looking at a flat _picture _of himself, at the world he used to roam, and it's just fucking weird.

Then his eyes trail down to Roselia and he tenses. Tentatively, he reaches out a hand to her. The artist has captured her memorable serene smile, the lighting enhancing her enchanting aura. Her eyes are pressed shut, and as fucking usual she's right by his side. Even in this depiction, there's determination in her stance, a resilient protective streak. Smoothing his fingers over her blue rose, Drew stifles an incredulous laugh. So much has happened today, he's done so many fucking dumb things already. If Roselia had been here to witness them, she would have probably smacked him round the head fondly with that rose before offering him a warm, consoling smile.

"Wha - wh- y-_you?_!" A voice squawks clumsily.

Drew doesn't jump, although the noise startles him. He simply propels himself away from the canvas with unmatched speed, leaning nonchalantly against the bedframe. On the other hand, the flustered brunette charges into her bedroom with absolutely no decorum. Amusement entices his lips into a poorly concealed smirk. These fucking _real people _let everything faze them, he swears. At least _this time_ she doesn't slam the door in his face, closing it promptly behind her.

When she turns back to him, countless expressions flitter over her face. Evidently, it's a real struggle for her to pick which one to fully endorse. Moments later, she settles with what he _thinks _is frustration. It's hard to interpret because she's fucking terrible at conveying it. The smirk spreads unabashedly across his face now. Suddenly, reality isn't such a drag. Suddenly, it looks like it could be _really _fun.

May points at him accusingly, attempting to be menacing and authoritative because this is _her room _and the avid cosplayer of her dreams is oh-so-casually in it. Now that he's stood against a backdrop of _Emerald Rose, _she feels her resolve disintegrating. Fascination takes its place punctually. Really, the resemblance between the posters and this guy is uncanny. Part of her has the audacity to believe it _is _him. This leads to a heap of incoherent, silly thoughts including the re-enactment of every rom-com confession scene in movie history. Before she spirals out of control into shipping land and other hazardous things, May hauls herself back. Great, now she's _literally _facepalming at herself.

Blinking, Drew watches her in confusion. Maybe it's a _real person _thing, slamming things into people's fucking faces. First it was the door, and now it's her hand. Whilst she's doing whatever the fuck she's doing, Drew flops onto the bed. He doesn't expect it to be so accommodating. Unlike the paper, it moulds docilely around his body the moment he falls. It's soft and comforting, a stark contrast to the stiff, thin gutters he snoozes in. There's also warmth seeping from the smooth material beneath his fingers. For reality, it's actually nice.

"H-how did you get into my room?!"

Shooting the fretful May a deadpan, Drew points wordlessly to the open window. _Honestly_, this girl is supposed to have a brilliant imagination, she should try actually _using it. _So far all he's seen is her poor attempt to conform to this world. That's never going to work, because there's something inherently different in her. He wouldn't be so intrigued if there wasn't. He glances over to find that she's regained some composure. It's a shame that he's about to completely ruin all that (it's not really).

"You're _totally obsessed with me_, huh?" he asks casually, gesturing to the whole room.

He expects (hopes) to see specks of red on her cheeks or for some kind of chaotic stream of words to leave her mouth awkwardly. He doesn't expect her to completely ignore his snark observation. She avoids his gaze, fumbling on her feet a little. Her mouth opens and then it closes, lips pursing into a thin line. Realisation slaps him in the face - she still doesn't believe he is _Emerald Rose. _His biggest fan is in denial. If he can't even convince _her, _then how the fuck he is supposed to convince Soledad he doesn't even know.

"Um, I'm really sorry," May stammers, holding her hands up nervously, _apologetically. _"There must be some mistake."

A sigh escapes her. _Of course _she wants nothing more than to indulge in stupid, ridiculous fantasies and to pretend. But she just can't with this situation. Suppressing the foolish excitement bubbling inside, May studies him. Yes he has an extraordinary alikeness to _Emerald Rose, _and he is possibly the most attractive person she will ever meet in her life, but it's time to get _real._ This is not a story, and unfortunately some things are impossible. Fictional Characters becoming real is one of these impossible things. Chewing her lip, the brunette wrestles with words she doesn't want to say yet has every reason to.

"I don't know who you are."

Scoffing, Drew discards her ridiculous words. Try as she might, there's no way she _really _wants to believe that. No fan would. The real world is pretty shitty, coaxing May's imagination into being so fucking dismissive. He doesn't like it. So he swings off the bed with newfound vigour. As he strides towards her, his cloak fans behind him dramatically.

"Okay," he meets her sapphire eyes, which are weirdly captivating up close. "Let's pretend we're in a story."

Stunned into silence, May stares back into those eyes. They're full of conviction, shining like they would when _Emerald Rose _steps up valiantly and actually saves the day. They're bright and striking, as if plucked from the pages themselves. But the dark, icy glaze remains on the surface. Again, there is that barrier, which cannot be overlooked. Screw reality and logic, the impossible _has _to be true. She is certain of it. Nobody could _willingly _put such things into contact lenses, or their real eyes. It's a look only he could perfect, something she never fails to recognise in the panels. This cannot be fabricated, despite the numerous attempts. _  
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Something bright and wonderful dances across her face, igniting a spark within her skin. Her iridescent eyes latch onto him, bursting with unhidden glee. Drew is caught off-guard by the intensity of her happiness, and is unsure why he finds it so pleasant. She really_ is_ full of sunshine, it seems.

"It _is_ you!" May screeches enthusiastically, leaping backwards to cup her face in shock. "It's actually you!"

She's so inanely excited she doesn't care that she's fangirling in front of him like a loser. _He is here_. Somehow, her favourite fictional character in the whole world is standing in her room, talking to her. This is _every _fan's wish come true. She has the opportunity to quiz him eagerly about the series, to disprove some of the silly theories circulating the fandom and to affirm what is really canon. Also, it is exceedingly difficult _not _to swoon - _because Emerald Rose. _If she was wildly attracted to him in the comics, then there is no coined term for _this_. Soledad has created an unlawfully handsome protagonist and this could be May's downfall.

Drew grins, flipping his hair. That gesture distracts her, reins her towards the situation at hand. There may come a day where she fangirls excessively over his existence, _but it is not this day._ Instantly, she remembers Volume Thirty-Five - the _problems _this fictional character has caused her. Reaching for offending Volume, May narrows her eyes irately. Granted, he may be her _fictional crush _since forever, but she is not going to let him off easy just because he's somehow here. In fact, this is the _perfect opportunity _to interrogate him. Now he's here, flipping his hair and smirking _that smirk, _she allows the hibernating frustration to surface. After all the uproar he has caused, he doesn't seem to even be _bothered! _

And gosh, that is really irritating.

"_You!" _May tosses the Volume towards his head. Reflexes as good as Soledad proclaims, Drew catches the book. He casts her a questioning glance, as if _genuinely _clueless about what he's done wrong. That's not true however, and she won't cave just because he's stupidly attractive. May can _see _his lips twitching, and it results in all the woes she has about his character to gush through her brain simultaneously.

"I can't _believe _you!"

Picking up the nearest Volume of _Emerald Rose_, May throws it frantically. It's kind of liberating, watching it fly towards his smug face. Too bad it's an utterly tragic shot. The Volume completely misses him, hurtling out the window rather pathetically. Drew glances over his shoulder at the window before raising an eyebrow.

"I know you have two copies of each Volume, but that's still insensitive."

May blinks, gaping at the clearly _deluded_ fictional character. He's ruined Volume Thirty-Five, broken her beloved tumblr, single-handedly brought the Internet to its knees, _and_ caused a fandom apocalypse. Yet somehow _she _is the insensitive one.

"Right, Drew Andrews," May folds her arms over her chest sternly. "You have some serious explaining to do. I'm not too happy about the movie either but it's no excuse. Being a fictional character means that you have a duty to your loyal fans, and think of Soledad-"

Drew shouldn't find this funny, but he _really fucking does. _Very quickly he's realised that something about riling her, pushing her into this state, is gratifying. Probably because this girl is a whirlwind of so many things it's kind of incredible that reality _lets _her stay. She's a sunny human being, a blinding optimist, a naïve dreamer, an extremely dedicated reader. And currently, she's a hardcore fan who is doing a shit job at being angry. She is _trying _to be angry though, which is interesting. Unlike him, she commits herself to every cause and every word she says. There's not an ounce of dishonesty in her actions, there is not a hint of half-assed attitude. She's _all in_ with everything and anything - it's a little puzzling. So much needless energy wasted, for every simple gesture. She's still spouting fuck knows what at him. Grinning, Drew walks towards the canvas hovering above May's bed.

"Can we talk about this instead?" tilting his head, he mock appreciates the painting of himself he was actually appreciating earlier (but May doesn't need to know that). "I've only ever seen the posters before…"

Anger swiftly betrays her, stomping off into the distance. There's no chance of calling it back now without risking internal conflict, because embarrassment _embarrassingly _bounds into the scene. Already it's patting her cheeks to induce redness, prodding her heart insistently. Shaking it off is pointless, especially when it's being so intrusive. Thus, the only thing to do is _feign calm. _

"There's nothing to talk about." May stubbornly pouts, averting her eyes and refusing to look anywhere else but the floor. "I just _really like_ the series."

Snorting, Drew detects the quiver in her voice, not to mention the blush spreading over her cheeks. Seriously, this girl is too fucking easy to vex and he's enjoying it way too much.

"Well," he begins tauntingly, leaning forwards to try and catch her eyes. She is surprisingly persistent, moving her face away each time he _almost _does. "I think you _really like _me too."

May Maple has no idea how she is supposed to even react to that. A fictional character is teasing her about her fictional crush on a fictional character, which just so happens to be him. The whole thing is befuddling and utterly ridiculous. She doubts many fangirls would have made it this far without fainting, so surely she deserves _some _credit for that feat. In this moment, lost in thought, May slips up majorly. She absently turns, clarifying the constant blur in her peripheral vision. Their eyes collide. Quickly, she pulls her gaze away.

But there's a problem, a _big _problem. She wasn't quick enough to miss it. His usually sharp eyes were not piercing, softened by large helpings of insufferable amusement. It's the first time she has seen those eyes so… unguarded. It's like he's shedding the usual edge, close to being totally relaxed. The recurring _memory _of this is electrifying. Her stomach lurches unpleasantly, her breath hitches. Her composure has suffered too much erosion now, because she can _feel _the heat burning. Surplus blood is flooding into her cheeks. This has sailed far away from the shore embarrassment now, into a sea of _too many feels_.

Shoulders hunched, the brunette lowers her head in an attempt to hide. Strands of hair messily sprawl over her face. Intense emerald continues to swamp her vision, long after she has looked away. Annoyingly, it calls to her. May empathises with Frodo Baggins. She truly understands his pain now, grappling with the power of the one ring - the struggle is real. She _wants _to delve into those astonishing eyes again despite knowing nothing good can come of it.

"Wow," Drew takes his iconic rose from the inside of his cloak, pressing it against her forehead. "I think you're as red as my rose."

"You're in my bad books already!" May snaps agitatedly, flicking the rose off her face. "Don't test me."

With a shrug, Drew retreats back to the cosy bed. He's not surprised to hear that she's pissed off because he's probably in _everyone's _bad books right now. Sitting beside him, the brunette frowns. She appears caught in thought. He notes the curiosity loitering in the corners of her eyes, and fears the worst.

"I'm just wondering," she starts, prodding her chin. "How did you even get here?"

And there it is, the fucking question. The question _he _hasn't quite figured out the answer to. All he knows it that some fucking fictional freak started _destroying _everything on the page and somehow when he fell into the darkness he landed in reality. He lands in a shitty alleyway, gets swept into the pavement superstorm, _almost _steals coffee and commits author-infidelity. It's not glamorous, like it would be in a _proper _story. It's hardly exciting like a story should be either. Besides, he's already annoyed his biggest fan _enough _with the whole Volume Thirty-Five fiasco, she probably will be largely disappointed with his anticlimactic retelling. He's not good at this part anyway; it's not his job. Soledad's the one who choreographs his movements, Drew is the stubborn dancer stuck on a different playlist.

"That's kind of hard to explain." He settles with bluntly.

Drew hopes his tone conveys the _I'm not fucking talking about this _that he desperately wants to say but can't bring himself to. Although aggravating this girl is somehow a delightful experience, he doesn't intend to be a _complete_ little shit to her. In a strange way, he probably owes the brunette a lot. She endlessly gushes praise for Soledad and will not tolerate the haters. With her engaging smile and bright eyes, Drew believes she is capable of converting _anyone _to Team Emerald. She broadcasts her passion for _Emerald Rose _to the world whenever she can. The stories on the page are translated fervently, nestled into her life with such purpose.

To his relief, May doesn't pry further on the matter, leaning against the wall. Her eyes, however, are still unsettled. She asks _another _question he's not prepared for.

"How did you find _me_?"

Well _shit. _Bolting upright, Drew tries to flip his hair with as much nonchalance as possible. He's failed; the angle is totally wrong and he almost ends up tearing his fucking hair out with clumsy fingers._ Fuck._ There's no way of answering this without sound like a creep because he literally _saw her and followed her home. _There is nothing normal about that. Drew swallows, realising he needs to say something fucking fast otherwise she will get suspicious.

"I just picked a random house on the street," he blurts unconvincingly. Lies, lies, lies. Oh fucking god, if this were fiction he would be waking up with a nose like _Pinocchio_. "and it turned out that you lived there, no big deal."

It kind of is a big fucking deal. Plucking her face from the crowd was one of the greatest things reality had offered him so far, and boy had it been a pretty fucking crap host. It was all chaotic and careless with its manners. Granted, Drew is hardly the epitome of etiquette. But at least _he_ had the courtesy to manage a disgruntled, reluctant hello when stumbling into reality's abode. In return, he received no hearty welcomes or friendly greetings. Seeing as reality couldn't throw him out it simply threw him _in, _with unnecessary force and insolence.

May is quiet beside him, stirring his interest. There's the trace of a smile slipping over her lips. It ghosts across her face, dusting her complexion with enchanting warmth. However, it isn't given time to flourish properly. She suppresses it suddenly, _nervously. _Fiddling with her hair, the brunette begins to fidget incessantly. Drew tries to laugh because right now she is a peculiar sight. But the sound gets stuck in his throat awkwardly and he can't push it out.

He's got bigger problems though, mainly struggling to accept that he is not trying to laugh _at _her. He's not mocking her, sneering in his usual way. The laugh is completely the wrong fucking shape, an anomaly of gentle curves and light tones that defy the usual criteria. It would be foolish to allow it to climb any further up his throat and slip out his mouth, because he has _no idea _what it would sound like.

Drew finds himself choking on the damn thing. Obviously, this is how everything is going to end for him. This is how he becomes a mere echo immortalised across the pages forever without a soul. He's going to fall into fictional limbo forever because he's _too fucking proud _to embrace the rare sunlight. To his relief, the foreign laugh wanes on his command. Only relief might not be the right word, because there's now a faint ache in throat that cannot be soothed.

"Do you even know who I am?" May's voice rings through the room, dispelling him from his trance.

"What is this, _twenty-fucking-thousand_ questions?" he huffs, dissecting her words absently.

In the short time they have been _properly _acquainted, Drew has come to establish that she is fucking rubbish at concealing her emotions. Behind the tentatively asked question is a flurry of things. The one that fucks him off the most is doubt. It keeps its distance from the front of the syllables, influencing her inflections as little as possible. But it's still there, weaving in between the mountains of confusion. It's still a persuasive, decadent force. Maybe doubt is telling her he really doesn't know who she is. Or maybe doubt is colluding with pessimism, insisting that there is no reason _why _he would know her because she is a normal girl. It's not like Drew to act responsible or take action. However, this doubt is almost more annoying than Phantom's '_behold - this is my plan_' monologues, and it has to be eradicated.

"A little," He admits softly. "Sometimes, I watch you when you read _Emerald Rose_."

Not sometimes, _more _than sometimes. Being completely truthful, she's the only one he would ever watch so frequently from the pages. Her reactions were always the best, so animated and full of fervour. The first time he accidentally fell into her copy, he was pleasantly surprised by her, and puzzled because she was less _real _than the others. There was something bubbling beneath her skin, astoundingly untainted by reality. So of course, visiting once every few weeks became once a week...which became three times a week, which became virtually once a day.

Thus, aside from his creator, May is the most familiar person in this world to him. But she doesn't need to know that, because even he doesn't quite understand the implications of such a statement and he doesn't _want to_. She's a fan, his biggest fan. Maybe, they can be friends here. The thought fucking freaks him out, and he feels like he's falling through that darkness all over again. _Friends. _He's only ever had Roselia for company. His whole life it's been the pair of them, nobody else. He's never actually enjoyed the presence of another human being before, let alone a _real _human being.

Stunned by his words, May gapes at him. He _does _know her, it seems. Out of _all _the people in the world, the _millions _of fans - he knows her. He _knows _her. He knows _her… he _knows her! The petty doubt withers away, replaced with unmasked relished joy. Momentarily she forgets how frustrating he is, because her favourite fictional character _ever _basically admitted to watching her in a way _slightly _less creepy than Edward Cullen. And she's striving to suppress the pure glee rising in her chest, failing miserably. _Emerald Rose _actually knows her, he watched her read his adventures. Each time she repeats this to herself, it feels even more ludicrous.

Before she can slam her hand in her face again or whatever the fuck weird _real people_ do when they're excited, Drew continues.

"_My turn_ to ask the questions." May's expression sobers when she identifies the smirk slithering up onto his lips. That cannot be good. _That _look often precedes one of his declamatory, rebellious speeches in _Emerald Rose. _Even worse, that look is the same look that destroyed the Internet. Bracing herself, the brunette swallows.

"Why does the short kid with glasses call me your _fictional boyfriend_?"

Oh Max Maple has _done it _now. Struggling _not _to fall off the bed in a pathetic, jittery heap, she turns her head from his view. Already her cheeks are burning _again_, her heart racing. Being called out on your fictional crush by your fictional crush is so painfully awkward she cannot even describe it.

"You misheard things." Somehow, her voice is even and she begs reality to play nice and let her win this. _Please _let him be as considerate as she was when questioning him. Let him just _drop _the subject and move onto something else. Surely, this is the least compelling thing they could be talking about. Unfortunately, according to his growing amusement, _Emerald Rose _finds this discussion _completely_ compelling. Woop-dee-freaking-doo. She is going down with this ship, and half of this stupid ship _is her. _

"I definitely didn't mishear." he teases, rose lightly touching his lips.

"Well you're _definitely _more annoying in person!" May retorts lamely, raking a hand through her hair in exasperation.

She needs to abandon the ship, let it sink deep into the ocean of regrets forever because this is tragically one-sided and hopelessly non-canon. Not only due to _Emerald _Rose's disparaging views on _L.O.V.E_, but also because she is _real _and he is _fiction_. She just _can't _let it go_. _This foolish dream has been _years _in the making and by some kind of miracle, or disaster depending on the perspective, he is here now.

"Ha," Drew leans back against the pillows, his grin widening. "You _do _have a crush on a fictional character! That's fucking lame, at least try to aim for someone you can _date-_"

"-Shut-up!"

Reaching for a nearby pillow she prepares herself to smack him in his beautiful face. He deserves it, having the audacity to lecture her on romance of all things considering his explicit opinion on the matter. She realises her mistake way, _way_ too late and there's no turning back. In the heat of the moment, she's picked up her _Emerald Rose_ pillow. Pursing his lips, to try and hold in the satisfaction tickling his throat, Drew snatches it from her.

"Wow." He breathes, gazing down at his face printed on the pillow. "I...didn't even know merchandising made these."

They don't make them, but May doesn't dare say it. She actually purchased that pillow at an _Emerald Rose _convention in Hoenn on a stall of fanmade products. She's all for supporting the fanbase. Although a majority of the fans are irritating and don't seem to _remotely _understand Drew's character, they make pretty awesome stuff on tumblr. Conversation can be fun when the fandom isn't having a meltdown over his latest stunt.

"This is more than fucking weird for me. It's…" Lips twitching, he searches for an apt description of how it feels to be looking at his face printed on a _pillow._

He catches May tensing beside him, mortified and anticipating his next words as if they hold more weight than anything else in this world. She doesn't just admire him, he bitterly realises then. She genuinely respects his opinion - a _real person _is respecting what a fictional character has to say. It's not just that either, it's deeper. He was fucking wrong, she _does _idolise him. Maybe she's idealised him too. It's a little sickening because he is not worth so much fuss. Nonetheless, Drew finds himself setting the pillow down and shrugging it off. Her spirit is strong. But if anyone could dampen it, it's probably going to be her fictional idol with biting words that are always harsher than he intends.

They're going to have to _really _work on that too, because he is _not _someone to be placed amongst the fucking stars like a _proper _hero. He is _not _an idol, he should never be. Surely, she's grasped that much from meeting him in reality?

"You're my biggest fan, I suppose I can make an exception."

Laughter sieves freely through his tone. And yes he's _definitely_ making fun of her, with unexplained delicacy, but for a moment May allows him the liberty. There's a _trace _of something warmer inside that smirk, his eyes a little lighter than before. The change is discreet enough to be dismissed as a figment of imagination. But May's good at that, imagining. Besides, in all Thirty-Five Volumes, Seven Specials and Official Artwork spreads, May has never seen this character so easy-going. He doesn't _do _easy-going. He's usually sauntering through the panels, causing trouble.

Yet here he is, hands cupping the back of his head loosely, legs sprawled over the bed lazily. Here he is, engaging in an actual _conversation - _one that doesn't begin or end with 'fuck you, I'm _Emerald Rose'. _Strangely, this resembles a perfectly normal scenario: two friends hanging out whilst jibing each other with childish, teasing remarks. Of course, his words are sharp and rancourous as ever. Sometimes they do sting, but they lack the potency often found within the pages.

It's conclusive proof. As she always has theorised, he's not quite the heartless bastard so many believe him to be. He's definitely annoying, _smug _and laden with arrogance. Yet he does care. It seeps through the cracks minimally - which is disappointing. But that's enough evidence to satisfy for now, to know he is capable of such things. After all, she said would accept this fictional character, _flaws and all._

The sound of her phone ringing pulls her from her reverie. May wishes she had snapped a photograph of Drew's confounded expression before answering.

"Hey Ash!" she greets, bombarded mercilessly with one of his fandom rants. Casting Drew an apologetic glance, she leaps off the bed and attempts to translate the words pummelling rapidly into her ear.

Studying the room, Drew's gaze lands on a stack on paper on the desk. He _recognises _even from here what that is. Soledad has them littered around her office. Swiftly, he walks over to it, unable to contain his smugness when he catches sight of the title page. Oh this is just _too fucking good_. The brunette's soft hums of agreement suddenly stop. Lowering the phone, May glowers in his direction, which doesn't make much of a difference. He smirks back, jiggling the paper in his hands playfully. In a flash, she's beside him, prying the manuscript from his hands frantically. Once again, he's made her face explode with vibrant colour.

"Do _not _read that!" she hisses hysterically, setting it down on the bed out of his reach. Drew rolls his eyes at her scolding. Honestly, telling him _not _to read it is going to have the opposite effect. She's supposed to be his biggest fan, she should know better than to bait him like that. He barely listens to Soledad, his creator, May shouldn't be so confident that he will listen to her. Waltzing casually past her, he salutes mockingly. Clutching the phone tighter, May stammers.

"A-Ash sorry. I'm going to have to call you back-" she hangs up before her friend has the chance to say goodbye. Yes, she is prepared to fight her fictional character over this, it's _imperative _he doesn't read it. Her life depends on it. She dives forwards urgently at the same time Drew lunges forwards. He's marginally quicker, snatching the manuscript off the bed.

"Ha!" Child's play,_ too fucking easy._

"Not so fast!" she tugs at his cloak, hauling him back determinedly.

Effortlessly, Drew unhooks the cloak and May falls clumsily into a dishevelled mess with the clothing. He flicks through the pages to reach the middle, scanning a few sentences here and there. She's certainly got an inventive imagination, fully qualified to support fictional worlds, and her style is engaging. Untangling herself from the cloak, the brunette darts forwards to attack again. Holding up his hand, Drew lightly pushes her back whilst skimming the pages. May yelps, desperately reaching for the paper so out of her grasp it's unfair. Really, he doesn't understand why this is a big fucking drama.

The _whole point_ of writing something is so it can be read. Surely, that's the reason authors do what they do. Or else, it makes no sense at all. There is no point in reviving characters so vividly, only to leave their story untold. Letting them collect dust upon the shelf until they suffocate is a fictional _sin, _and so many characters have suffered this cruel fate.

"Give it back_-"_

"-Manners cost nothing May-"

"-_You're_ one to talk!"

Feigning hurt at her insult, Drew frowns over the top of the manuscript. It collapses into a smug smirk within seconds. He dodges the oncoming swipe of her hand. The brunette seems to be forgetting who she is up against. _He_ is the protagonist in a fucking _superhero_ comic; his body is accustomed to avoiding hits and enduring combat. Although this is hardly proper combat, _this _is fucking hilarious.

Scowling, May pursues the futile battle.

"_Please, _you insufferable jerk."

When he refuses to comply, she loses her composure completely. The manuscript is _nowhere near _ready for reading. It's especially not fit for the main protagonist to be reading so leniently against her wishes. There could be endless typos unspotted or worse, hideous misjudgements of his character she has yet to amend. Balling her fists, May raises her voice petulantly.

"Just give it back right now, it's _mine!" _

"But it's_ all _about me_." _Drew coos mischievously, triggering a blush which occupies her whole face. "Surely, that makes it mine too?"

_Finally_, May manages to seize the manuscript whilst he's gloating over the effect his words have on her. Hugging it against chest protectively, she sighs in relief. For now, the manuscript is safe. When she continues to shoot him wary, sceptic glances, Drew holds his hands up resignedly. _For now, _he will give up and let her claim victory. However, he _does _want to read more because it's actually fucking good and ties in well with the _Emerald Rose _series. Soledad would be impressed with it, _he's _impressed with it and he's only read a few paragraphs. Remarkably yet again, the brunette has proved her extensive knowledge of his universe, and his character. It's a fucking crime that she hasn't _used _that gift to her advantage. Then again, those kinds of thoughts are the thoughts of a closet antagonist.

"Anyway," May heaves another laboured sigh, placing the manuscript beside her on the bed cautiously. "That was my friend Ash on the phone."

"So?" Drew dryly retorts, indiscreetly rummaging through her room in an attempt to discover more bizarre _Emerald Rose _merchandise.

"_So," _May forces a sour smile onto her lips, struggling to maintain her usual upbeat tone. "He reminded me of something important that's happening tomorrow."

"Okay," He's not paying much attention to what she's saying, prodding the _Emerald Rose _action figure on the shelf curiously. "I really don't see how any of that is relevant to _me._"

Drew has no idea what the purpose is for _Emerald Rose _stationary either, because he's hardly the most motivational fictional character. There are plenty of other choices that could serve as a better example to inspire academia or studying. On the side of her desk he sees that she has made a list of his apparent 'motivational quotes' (with the stationary, of course). Scrolling through the list, he grunts in disapproval. _All _of them are Soledad's words; the few heroic speeches he knew if he dared fuck them up he'd be crossing the line. He's well and truly beyond that line now, however. In hindsight, even _he _begrudgingly accepts that Volume Thirty-Five was pretty uncalled for.

"Soledad." May says simply, positive that this powerful word will steer him away from nosily snooping through her belongings like she isn't even in the room. It _does _distract him_, _with more intensity than she suspects. He spins dramatically around to face her, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Expectantly, he waits irascibly for her to elaborate. Although it's funny to see him so flummoxed, May isn't cruel enough to leave him in such a state for much longer.

"She's doing a signing at Pewter Bookshop tomorrow."

Springing into action abruptly, Drew dashes to her side. He doesn't care if it's fucking erratic and a little out of character because the opportunity to meet his _creator _has arrived. May knows where Soledad Cintadelez is, and he has a responsibility as a fictional character to follow this through. He's still not sure what the fuck he would even say, but it's _Soledad_. Clasping the brunette's shoulders, Drew meets her eyes intensely.

"Take me there."

_Marry me, be mine forever _May hears foolishly in her head, unable to escape the paradise her fangirlish tendencies create. It's too late to try anyway, because he's staring at her so earnestly with those stupid, alluring emerald eyes. His grip is uncomfortably tight; his gaze is fierce and blazing. May can't _help _but swoon a little, even after discovering how intolerable he is. Once a fangirl, _always _a fangirl. There is no turning back.

"Wh-" she squeaks anxiously. "Me- _y-y-"_

"-Calm the fuck down." Drew releases her from his clutches, his smouldering intensity rapidly evaporates. "It's not like I'm asking you out…" he sniggers, unable to resist temptation. "I bet you _want me to_ thou-"

"-Argh!" The pillow May's now screaming into muffles her despair. Lifting her head promptly, hair ruffled and face flushed, she scowls at the problematic protagonist. "Go find the bookshop yourself!"

"But you're obviously going," he ventures, poking her in the arm insistently. "Why can't you take me?"

Obstinately, the brunette ignores him. She flicks his hand away from her arm, leaving him no choice but to move onto his devious plan B. Yes, the protagonist who doesn't plan is planning once more, but _only _because this is fucking important. He has to see Soledad, endeavouring to rile May has absolutely nothing to do with this process. Nothing at all.

"You're my biggest fan." Lowering his voice deliberately, Drew leans forwards. "I need you."

Holy shit. Soledad Cintadelez has created a monster, a _charming _monster. May is rendered utterly defenceless to such powers. If her face was burning before, it's now an active volcano that is erupting violently, spewing excess heat across every inch of her skin. She is exploding, unable to process what he's just said without dying on the inside.

"D-don't say that!" May burrows her face into her pillow once more, wishing she could just become invisible forever.

Well, that didn't go quite to plan. Drew is genuinely concerned that he has broken her, sent her to some strange psychedelic land she cannot return from. Regardless, it seems he has to stoop _so fucking low_ and implement plan C. Drew's going to have to do that heinous thing even _real people _detest_: _put all his cards on the table, _tell the truth._

"Look, I don't know where the fuck I am or what the fuck I am doing." He admits bleakly, startling May for a moment. Sneaking a glance towards him coyly, she notices the lost expression settling onto his face. He's unaware that she's looking, meaning the permanent barrier is lowered slightly. Fiddling with his hands, the protagonist scratches his forehead, and it _must _be the light because his cheeks are a little darker than before.

"I…" swallowing, Drew contorts his face is displeasure. He can't fucking _believe _he's doing this. But he _has to, _and the sooner it's over the better.

"I would appreciate it if you took me to the Bookshop." He mumbles almost incoherently.

May sits up briskly. Perhaps her imagination is toying with reality, translating the words wrong. Drew Andrews, the _Emerald Rose, _is asking for help. _Help. _It's indirect, but it's embedded deep enough to be noticeable. This is a monumental moment in _Emerald Rose _history. Sadly, nobody will ever believe that it happened because of the context. But it _has _happened. He's asking _her _for help. Despite the 'I need you' being nothing more than a tactical, sly manoeuvre, it holds some truth. Right now, it seems he does need her. Stifling a smile, May wears her best annoyed expression.

"Fine." She grumbles, lips upturning gently. "_Only_ because I'm a fan."

With that confirmation, Drew shuts his eyes and settles onto the bed. For a moment, a _tinsy-winsy _moment, it's nice. Reality is nice, a real bro. He feels his body unwinding, which is another new sensation because his body has never been _real. _Now he's stationary, the unyielding intensity of the day sinks into his skin lethargically. His muscles ache, a dull throbbing settling over his legs. He's never quite drifted off like this in the realm of fiction.

Usually, it just kind of happens without any pointless dithering. Compared to this place, things are much more straightforward in fiction. Yet he thinks he might prefer this slow, unravelling of his conscious. The aching is somewhat pleasant; a reminder of his toils, proof of his very existence. Every inch of him calls for rest, for the descent into dreams whilst his mind leisurely recaps the events of the day. Well…it's certainly been an eventful first day.

Suddenly, it's all fucking gone.

The illusion of peace is shattered. He's being shaken back into reality with more force than necessary. Opening his eyes reluctantly, Drew grouchily glowers at the brunette. To be dragged out of blissful calmness in such a way is really fucking cruel.

"You can't sleep here." May explains sheepishly. "You're a boy, my Dad _will_ kill you."

"Where _the fuck _am I supposed to go?!" He snaps tetchily, tiredness invasively prodding every inch of him less pleasantly than before. "I mean it's not like I have a…"

The words trail off before he has a chance to voice them. Averting his eyes, Drew rolls onto his side so she can't see the dark expression etched into his skin. A home. He was going to fucking say _home._ It's never bothered him much, really. Strolling through the gutters, exploring the white expanse of a page is fulfilling enough on most days. Reality is hardly anything impressive in comparison; his fictional world trumps many aspects of it. He's not missing much at all. He doesn't even fully understand what constitutes as a home anyway. That's how fucking clueless he is, how one-dimensionally _fictional _he is. Weird. Being fictional hasn't bothered him this much before either. Yet currently, there's something sharp twisting in his gut.

"Hey Ash, sorry about before," May smiles into the phone, luring Drew away from his fucking _strange _mood. Closing his eyes, he listens to her soothing voice. It's bright, like sunshine. All of her is sunshine. He'll gladly take the warmth and wheedle it into eradicating the cold frosting permeating his headspace.

"Yeah. Can you help me out? A friend of mine needs a place to crash tonight." Pause. Turning to Drew, who blinks open an eye at the loss of her voice, the brunette grimaces. "Erm…well…it's probably best that you come here and see for yourself."

Putting the phone down, May collapses onto her bed. Babysitting a fictional character is exhausting and it's _only been an hour_. She says babysitting because Drew has no idea what on earth he is doing. Taking into account his oh-so obnoxious mannerisms, he is the equivalent of Godzilla. He's ploughing through this world destructively, mostly oblivious to his calamitous impact. Drew Andrews pisses people off just from typed out words on a page; reality has amplified that tenfold. It's so instinctive, he probably doesn't even know he's doing it. And try as he might to cover up with overdone nonchalance and shitty comments, it's_ glaringly obvious_ that he is out of his depth. He might even be overwhelmed. Even here, the fictional protagonist looks out of place (though that's probably because her father prohibits boys from being in her room).

"Tell me May," Drew interrupts her trail of thought, the blasted manuscript back in his hands. Somehow, he's managed to claim repossession of it right under her nose. "Do you really think my eyes sparkle like _tainted jewels, lost to the murky shadows pooling around the_-"

"-It's a first draft." She supplies meekly, cringing in disbelief she had written something so corny.

"Now I know you already have a title, but I think _'Eyes Like Tainted Jewels' _fits better." There he goes, flipping his freaking perfect hair freaking perfectly. Grinning, Drew waggles his eyebrows, evidently proud of his suggestion.

"I didn't think it such a thing could be possible," May admits wearily, tugging her hair from the ponytail. It cascades messily to her shoulders, a few strands fall onto her face. "But you're actually a hundred times more overbearing in person."

Drew flicks through a couple of pages, settling on something that catches his interest. Absently, he waves a hand in her direction.

"Thank you."

"_No_. No." May groans, clamping her hands over her eyes. It's going to be _really _long night. "That wasn't a compliment."

"Wrong!" he complacently declares, amusement smearing over his face. "_Everything_ is a compliment from you. You're biased, because you have a massive crush on me."

Right now, May Maple also has a _massive _ninety-nine problems crushing_ her_.

It's no surprise that _Emerald Rose_, part-time protagonist and general troublemaker, is at the heart of them all.

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><p><strong>.End Notes.<strong>

Do you have a BBFFOAFITWU like Harley does? Harley has some absolutely classic moments coming up!

Writing from Drew's perspective is very fun. It's interesting to try and grasp his position. I'm not a big user of the F word at all, so it's actually kind of hilarious when I write him.

May's perspective is just littered with fandom references and general fangirling _I'm not even sorry._ Kudos to whoever spots them all. In comparison to Soledad and Drew, May's perspective is much more direct in tone as you can probably see. I've intertwined her and Drew at the end.

I really thought _long and hard_ about how to approach the big scene (should I do it from May's POV or Drew's POV ect). I figured it would be fun to glimpse into both their minds especially as there were moments that better suited Drew, and moments that I desperately needed to use May's voice. Even perspective-wise they kind of complement each other. What loveable dorks they are!

Oh yeah Drew, we're all wondering, what's all this shit about May being _sunshine_? It's a little poetic for someone who doesn't do love. (It's also totally adorable, keep at it bby).

You know that thing May does when she walks down the stairs and starts imagining all the possible scenarios and most of them are ridiculous? I can't be the only person that actually does this.

Also, I discovered when writing this chapter I have an irrational fear of dialogue - of all the things to be afraid of! Sometimes it just chops things up too much for me and I freak out. Another reason this chapter took so long is because it deals with a crucial character-character conversation and I didn't want to settle for a compromise by making the dialogue shoddy and lose the detail. Nonetheless, this dialogue is all necessary for the tone, I already chopped half of the original script out (might be doing some 'deleted scenes' with the outtakes if people are interested).

Underlying themes are starting to creep through as we depart from the 'exposition' phase in the story. Excited to move forwards! We have an interesting journey ahead of us for all the characters...

In your reviews (if you are leaving one, always lovely to hear your thoughts), I would love to see what you can come up with for the **TBTV35** (Things Better Than Volume Thirty-Five) hashtag. Let's see how sassy we can get on Emerald Rose! SOZ DREW, but you do kinda deserve it this time... ;)

Gonna stop talking because I could ramble about the 'making of' this chapter all day and undoubtedly bore you all.

Until next time amigos!


	5. Interlude I: I'm Not Always Prickly

Greetings all!

I wanted to give you something to read so badly, but the new chapter is um. I'm not going to lie it is in very early construction stages. Please don't freak out, it is coming and I hope you like it when it does.

Unfortunately my already serious health issues are working against me I've been constantly ill and exhausted. To top it all off, this week I've caught a nasty flu _and_ the beginnings of a chest infection are manifesting. So in short, I'm currently stupidly ill and can't do a damn thing. I've been out of the game of life completely! I'm pretty much sitting on the sidelines anyway, but at least normally I can write something decent.

So yeah. _I'm s__o__ sorry_ it's been a while. I have not lost passion or interest; it's just quite simply a really difficult time for me.

But as I said, I wanted to give you readers something as thanks. So introducing:

**A Fictional Reality: Interludes**

These are going to be short and comprising of one scene. In these interludes, I will focus on other characters or parts of the story that add to the essence, but they are not necessary to the overall plot. There's a lot of stuff I want to get through in this fic, so I've had to cut out bits I _really _wanted to keep but couldn't. Also, there are a lot of characters cameos I really want to write more of who won't get a lot of 'air time' despite my love for them, so they will probably be getting Interludes.

I've already lined up and planned a handful of _Specials_ for after the story ends, which I am really excited about. So I really hope the Interludes are well-received and add to this Universe. Especially with how my health is, I think the Interludes might keep the story's momentum going and allow a different angle on things between chapters.

I hope you like it anyway.

**Anon Review Replies**:

**Just Anon**: Thanks for the Birthday wishes, I did have a good day some of my friends came to see me! Soledad is clever and strategic so I'm glad you thought that was an assumption she could make. Also she's an author here, so she has a pretty good imagination and thinks outside the box (when not struggling with her fictional character!). YES the Steven Stone Chronicles...heheh. Couldn't resist. Everyone loves Steven after all... I'm so chuffed you enjoyed the May/Drew scene as that was the main focus of the chapter. And the tweets - THE PHANTOM MENACE. That one made me laugh so much. Thank you!

**mangaanimelover: **Glad you are enjoying the story and thank you for reading so far :) ! Yes, Pikachu is a mouse in this universe! It's impossible to separate Ash and Pikachu.

**ShinyEevee2: **Wowza thank you for that. Means a lot that you like this story so much and I hope that continues as we progress!

**EmeraldoftheStars: **Hahhaha maybe that could be a missing scene, May showing Drew the internet like "Look LOOK what you've done!" lol. He will probably find it hilarious and he doesn't really understand what the internet is yet... Haha I just enjoy writing Harley so much, he is too funny. YES THAT IS A VERY BAD TBTV35 - I accidentally stumbled across untagged spoilers during an SNK manga update once. But now I'm up to date, so am safe. Thanks for the Birthday wishes :) and thank you as ever for reading!

**May4Drew**: To hear you were excited about the update made me smile :D. Thank you for understanding about the update times and stuff. I'll do my best to update when I can. Thanks, Birthday was wonderful! Pokemon Y and Pokemon Omega Ruby are amazing, it's so so good. Yeah Norman totally went hunting for boys, lol. Max just knows how to plan and scheme. Oh don't you worry, the cosplay thing is definitely carrying on, Drew is so clueless he still thinks it's a swearword or something xD. YEAH THE STEVEN STONE CHRONICLES. I went there. I cannot say anymore on that subject... And thank you for believing in me and my dialogue. TBTV35 - dw, I once texted my crush a text about how much I liked them because I was thinking about them so much I wasn't paying attention...oops. Thanks for stopping by!

**CathyCaterpie**: I'M SORRY I WILL LEAVE RIGHT NOW AND NEVER SHOW MY FACE AGAIN. Yes May would totally sing 'for the first time in forever', it's possible. No comment on the smirking, I'm totally messing around with fiction and reality and loving it ;). Wow thanks. I don't intend for this to be solely romance or to focus just on our two dorks, I had a clear intent to make this bigger and more than that so thank you. Yeah the laugh, I _did _spent three paragraphs describing a laugh didn't I...more of this 'reality' stuff to come. Definitely my favourite scenes to write. I'm sorry not sorry for dropping a feels bomb suddenly. And I'm glad you like the ending, I always have the ending line/phrase in my head before I start. Endings and openings are very important to me :). Thanks again!

**Dedication:** I'd like to give a shout out to **_Ready To Flyxxx_**, you're awesome and our PM chats always cheer me up!

**Just to clarify before we begin**: This takes place at around the same time Drew is hopelessly following (stalking) May to her house in the previous chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>A FICTIONAL REALITY: INTERLUDE<strong>

**.**

**Analystproductions 2014**

* * *

><p>It is a well-known, constantly affirmed fact in Kanto that wherever Gary Motherfucking Oak goes, shitty remarks slip from his mouth. His silver tongue is sharp, laced with potent wit that for some reason never seems to faze the small entourage of smitten girls that often take it upon themselves to document his every move…<em>like that's not fucking creepy.<em> And as he goes about his daily business, despairing over his apparent friendship choices - because _really_ – whilst waltzing Ash Ketchum into trouble and being a general little shit, Arrogance drapes over his shoulder. With reverence, it proclaims the spiky-haired teen its ruler. Gary wears it proudly like a fucking crown, of course.

Upon hearing these observations, surely anyone (besides the love-struck girls) could swiftly come to a few assumptions: he's quite intimidating, infuriating and insufferable - avoid at all costs.

However, it's never fair to judge character by what you see after all. Illusion is a powerful thing. Once an opinion has been voiced, it's difficult to truly subjugate and form your own authentic impression. Sure, Gary Oak is an asshole, he admits that willingly in the same manner someone would boast about being the fucking _winner of the lottery _or something brilliant. Nonetheless, he is not hard-hearted. He just has a low tolerance for bullshit and enjoys irking other human beings instead of being nice. That's _fine, _and it's always been fine.

And it's only because lately May Maple has been harping on about this fucking _Emerald Rose _more than ever, that Gary has found himself compared to the anti-hero-protagonist with a whatever-the-fuck-complex. It's happened _twice _today, falling slyly from Dawn's mouth, on top of the barrage of hedgehog comments that quite frankly are beginning to make his hands twitch near scissors. A few snips was all it would take…_but no_. Gary Oak doesn't submit to pressure, he's the one who pulls the strings and creates that very pressure in the first place. He's sure as fuck not going to be manipulated into cutting his hair because the lame losers he spends _all his time with _finally have some shit on him.

It's about time they levelled the playing field anyway, he probably owed them a few thousand homeruns.

So after begrudgingly flicking through a Volume, Gary decides that being compared to _Emerald Rose _is actually quite a low blow. For starters, he's nothing like this lazy, half-assed punk who can't seem to decide on a persona, exhibit consistency or commit to _anything_. He's all over the place. Although his brunette friend avidly _insists _that this protagonist isn't heartless, the entire world that thinks otherwise is less than two clicks away via google. He doesn't search for long because he's never been into _Emerald Rose, _but he discovers a few _moderately _interesting things. The idiot certainly has his fanbase polarised. And that signature hair flip thing is painfully ostentatious- even for _him_. It's not at all his style.

He doesn't flip his hair, he _flicks_ it; there's a huge difference.

Thus, Gary does find it within himself to be a little pissed at Dawn for even _suggesting _they are similar.

If _Emerald Rose _really is as heartless as people claim, then Gary is quite of the opposite faction. It's surprising, of course it is, because he doesn't publicise this or flaunt this fact. He simply doesn't feel the need to do that; it's more fun riling people that way. But he does expect his friends to _notice _the softening of his eyes when he knows he's pushed a _little _too far, the quiver of his smirk when someone says something funny. Plus that amusement they all hate pirouettes inside his eyes tauntingly - but never _maliciously_. Yeah, it definitely pirouettes. Despite Gary Oak insisting it breakdances like a badass as it manifests itself, it's graceful and slightly timid.

Because holy shit, he will never say it, but he actually _likes _the losers who somehow have stuck with him for this long.

He _also _likes the ball of fluff sprawled in his lap contentedly asleep. Who is he kidding though, like is an understatement. He fucking _adores _this creature with every fibre of his being, smothering the brown fur with untamed affectionate strokes and pats. The top of the puffy tail and chest are a lighter shade of creamy brown. He lets the unlawfully cute ball of fur nuzzle further into his chest, one paw digging awkwardly into his ribs. Even if sometimes he feels a little wheezy and itchy, because he is slightly allergic, he can't bring himself to push her away. A smile touches his lips as the breathing fluffball rustles languidly. Gazing up with large dark eyes that are his biggest downfall, the fluffball blinks slowly.

Nudging her head, Gary leans down fondly.

"Oh you're finally awake Eevee," he coos, voice taking on a stupid, dorky quality reserved only for her. She prods his palm with a paw, clearly implying he is neglecting to pat her favourite spot behind her right ear. Rolling his eyes, Gary huffs. To demonstrate her point further, she pokes him in the ribs tenaciously.

"I'm not your personal servant, you know."

It's a terrible lie. She only has to cock her head to one side for him to quickly heed her silent command. Resistance is futile after all, because he cannot deny her anything - _ever._ It's her own fault for being so ridiculously adorable and using it to her advantage constantly. She's definitely taken after him a little, if animals can even do that. Gary Oak reckons it is possible. It has to be - there's a satisfied glint in Eevee's eyes that mirrors his usual expression.

"Gah!" He pouts, shoving her off his lap in mock annoyance because she's _gloating_. "Don't even go there, Eevee."

With newfound energy, she bounds back into his lap littering his face with licks. As always, she is more than ready to challenge him. Laughter bursts from Gary's mouth as he attempts to peel the enthusiastic puppy away from his face. But then again, he's not _really _trying.

"Eevee!" he gasps, eyes crinkled and one hand half-heartedly shielding his face from further assault. She ignores him, paws pushing insistently into his sides. The sensation is a mix of discomfort and tickling that reaps another laugh from his lips.

"Fine, _fine _you win this one_." _

Gently, he picks her up and rubs their noses together. There's something special about the companionship of an animal that reduces him to a complete kid. He can't even deny it. He totally understands the bond Ash has with Pikachu despite frequently teasing the raven-haired boy for it. Eevee makes Gary inherently happy and she's unbiased towards him. No matter what, she's _always _happy to see him whatever mood he's in or what shit he's pulled that day. She's an unwavering bundle of cute joy. Gary can feel her tail wagging, brushing against his hands faintly as it moves. As he expects, she tries to lick him again.

"No," he chides in a playful voice, setting her down beside him on the navy sofa. He leans down to pull a comical face at her disgruntled expression. Absently, Gary brushes over her thick fur, which appears to pacify her. His voice gradually becomes sillier in the process. All animals deserve their human talking to them weirdly; it's the fundamental rule not even Gary Oak can break.

"Whoooo's the cutest, _cwutest_ little pup in the _whole world_-"

Unfortunately, _impossibly,_ he gets a reply.

"-Well, this is yet more poof of _Unlikely Animal Friends." _

Eyes wide, Gary Oak _almost _gracelessly falls off the sofa at the snarky, familiar voice. It's also the voice of someone who _definitely _doesn't live here, deeply concerning him because _nobody _outside this residence has seen him coddling the puppy. Bolting upright, he glowers over to the source of the voice standing in the hallway. Heat flushes unwillingly into his cheeks because he just _knows _that the redhead has seen absolutely everything. Fuck. As if she didn't have _enough _on him right now.

"What are you doing here?" He defensively spits, embarrassment morphing smoothly into irritation.

Pointing in the direction of the front door, Misty Waterflower shrugs. She drops the green backpack on her shoulder casually, entering the room with that usual confidence of hers. Momentarily, she studies the deep maroon walls, the plethora of deep rich colours the aztec patterned rug by the sofa offers. Gary scoffs at her calculated expression, obvious surprise unfurling across her skin. He's _not _surprised by her reaction. For some unknown reason, people are _always _expecting Gary's home to be either completely black ("like your heart") or devoid of colour.

Maybe it's because he lives with the prestigious Professor Oak, who is quite often in the field or teaching, and his older charmingly talented sister, that people assume he immediately has more of a say on decor. But as a matter of fact, he is not into extreme minimalism or gothic, deathly designs because as he has been emphatically reminding himself all day: he _is _a relatively-friendly person. Resulting from this and Gramps' insistence for colourful simplicity, his home is actually a stark contrast to the expectations. It's _incredibly homely_ and welcoming without even intending to be. There's a wonderful, understated warmth that radiates from the walls. Misty appears to delve into this warmth, snooping more freely.

"How did you even get in here though?" Gary has to ask, because there _is_ such a thing as locks on the front door.

"Daisy let me in."

Gary has no doubts his fucking _angelic _sister has somehow deliberately timed this. He's unsure how, but nobody's luck can be so bad to get caught in such an affectionate act. It just _can't. _Narrowing his eyes, he removes his hand reluctantly from Eevee's fur to clench his fists.

"I'm going to _kill _her-"

"What's the hurry?" Misty quips quickly, keeping him on his toes as usual.

It's a universal truth that she is one of the _only_ people capable of sassing him back. Gary blinks away the confusion at her words before it can even _think _about settling on his face. There's some kind of joke coming, and judging by the way she is eyeing the obligatory family photos strewn over the room from when he hair was even _spikier_, it probably has something to do with fucking hedgehogs.

"I thought you were going to take me down first Sonic, to level up."

Faking a laugh at her comment with as much sarcasm he can muster, Gary folds his arms across his chest. Ha, _ha,_ ha. That joke withered and shrivelled into _the worst joke on the planet _the very second it was created by that good for nothing Student Rep. That's how unfunny it was. Yet _still, _here it loiters like a fucking parasite, never relinquishing its hold. For the record, he is not pouting, nope. Okay so what if he is. He has good reason to - this is the first _proper _thing any of them have held over him. Also, now he's _almost _been dethroned, he hates the dark realisation hissing in his ear. It's really bad.

The hedgehog comments have proven that he could actually be one of those people who can totally dish it out but I can't take it. Ugh. What a massive nuisance. Pressing his palm against his eyelid in exasperation, Gary sighs. Troubled by his shift in body language, Eevee leans against his side comfortingly. In response, Gary gently pats her appreciatively. At least _someone_ is taking his side.

"You enjoy ruining my life too much Red."

"Just returning the favour." She supplies effortlessly, _mercilessly, _strolling towards the sofa. Grunting, Gary gazes up at the unfazed redhead. _Touché._ Beside him, Eevee takes a defensive stance, an unwelcome look rife in her eyes. It takes Misty a few seconds to notice that the stupidly fluffy pet is angry with her. It's _hilarious, _because Eevee is incapable of looking anything but freakishly cute with all that excess fur. Her attempts at being scary simply enhance her nauseatingly enchanting appearance. With those _enormous _eyes, there's no way it's ever happening. A soft laugh escapes Misty's lips, Eevee relaxes a little at the sound.

"Oh don't give me that look, he totally deserves it." Misty chimes, magically transforming from her demonic dragon-form and into an innocent, sweet girl that is fooling _nobody…_apart from Eevee who tilts her head inquisitively. Crouching by the sofa, the redhead smiles.

"I can see why he likes you," Misty reaches out to stroke the fur on top of Eevee's head. "You're _so cute-"_

Eevee shuffles closer blissfully.

"-That's the dark side Eevee, don't you dare." Gary barks rudely, glowering at her as if he has been betrayed in the worst possible way. Bemused, she spares him a blank look before snuggling back into Misty's palm. Funny how Eevee seems to _perfectly _understand him most of the time, yet now she is feigning confusion for a bit of extra attention. Pursing his lips, Gary watches the pair interact.

"Great, now you've _corrupted _her."

It's a long slippery road downwards from here.

"You're a good enough influence for that, Oak."

Misty Waterflower has the audacity to scoop Eevee into her arms _right _in front of him. The puppy complies entirely, yapping in delight. In fact, Eevee's tail is wagging faster than the presto in that Prokofiev Violin Sonata his sister had mastered last year. Fucking _traitor._ Sitting beside Gary, the redhead lets the puppy nestle into her lap. It takes a lot of self-restraint to_ not_ lean over and rescue Eevee from Misty's villainous clutches. Instead, Gary exchanges disappointed glances with his puppy when he _knows _she's looking his way expectantly. Apparently, he's not very subtle. Smiling incredulously, Misty turns to him. There's a dangerous twinkle in her eyes, an ember as fiery as her hair.

"I eagerly anticipate the moment a person has you as whipped as Eevee does."

Oh shit he's been busted. It's official; his reputation is now slandered, and he sincerely hopes he can bounce back from this.

"But _wait,_" holding the bridge of his nose, Gary Oak awaits whatever she has in store for him next. The ember has grown into a blazing fire, totally consuming her cerulean eyes. "I actually _do_ know someone who-"

There's no way in fucking hell he is going to let her finish that sentence.

"-I just wanted to have a good time," Gary grumbles in her direction. Here he is, in his _own home,_ continuously being pummelled with snark and sass from an unwanted guest who literally invited themselves in. "And honestly, I'm feeling _so _attacked right now."

Grinning, Misty raises an eyebrow. Clearly apathetic to his remark, she nudges him playfully.

"Well the cat's out the bag, Oak."

"Eevee's a Pomeranian _you uncultured swine_." He snaps bitterly, although he is fully aware she is not talking about his loveable pet anymore. Damn, she really _does _have a lot of embarrassing shit on him tucked away to expose whenever she wants.

"Speaking of _Ashy-boy," _she continues unfazed, smirking as Gary appears slightly more attentive. "I need you to help me out-"

"-Oh fucking _god _what's he gone and done now?_" _Gary snorts dismally, cradling his face in his palms and purposefully ignoring her insinuations. He can't help but reminisce fleetingly all the ludicrous situations Ash Ketchum has propelled himself into over the years. The Ketchum Bicycle Curse is probably the most _normal _of his daily occurrences. He really is an unintentional menace at the best of times. Misty catches the flash of worry in Gary's eyes before it can creep back into the shadows.

"Well, Delia's going out of town until tomorrow."

"So?" Gary knows his heaped nonchalance is evidently crumbling, but he's past caring.

"_So, _Ash is going to be left to his own devices with Pikachu. At home." Pause. For emphasis, she leans towards the spiky-haired teen, eyes glazed with concern. "_Alone." _

At her words, Gary's face scrunches up, nose wrinkled. Holy crap. The gravity of the situation sinks in promptly because yep, this is definitely the ultimate recipe for fucking disaster. If you wanted to potentially destroy the world but lacked resources, _this _was a brilliant starting place. He recalls that time a few months ago when the imbecile tried to cook himself dinner. On that day, Gary Motherfucking Oak received a grim reminder of the dire consequences regarding Ash Ketchum being left home alone.

Traumatised by the very vivid memory, Gary involuntarily flinches. Luckily, he and Misty had quickly realised what a grave mistake they had made when leaving him to his own devices. They had arrived back to the house, only to find the cooker hazardously spewing giant flames and pasta sauce splattered messily all over the fucking walls. It had taken _hours _for them to scrub the blasted stuff off, and did he mention the _fire _that could have burnt the whole house down.

It's very likely that Ash Ketchum was the genuine inspiration for all of the _Home Alone_ movies.

"So you'll sleep over there tonight." Misty affirms, relief spreading over her face accompanied by a delicate smile.

_Woah, _what the actual fuck. Now Gary Oak is hardly a relationship guru despite the scandalous rumours, but even he establishes there is something pretty _wrong _with what just came out her mouth. Bewildered, he frowns.

"You're his girlfriend," she squeaks at the words, brow furrowing. "shouldn't you be jumping at the opportunity for a free house?" He accentuates his point by waggling his eyebrows.

Pretty sure he has three seconds left to live, Gary hauls a cushion up to soften the imminent punch heading his way. Three seconds pass and somehow he's still alive and well. Five seconds pass and, to his shock, Misty doesn't bite at the bait _at all_. Peering over the cushion, Gary raises a brow curiously. What he sees is both amusing and endearing. She's bowing her head in a poor attempt to hide her reddening face.

"Um. I- we- I…h-haven't stayed over b-before." she stammers, voice wavering in volume and pitch nervously.

Gary doesn't know why he's so _stunned, _because this is Ash and Misty. They're both complete bumbling, shy, _idiotic dorks_ when it comes to anything remotely romantic. Considering they're a couple, they hardly give off any indication in public. Something as trivial as brushing hands often smears embarrassment over their faces. It used to be hilarious, Gary's favourite trump card when teasing. Now however, the fucking sap inside him finds it just as cute as Eevee's exaggerated doe eyes. Nobody has to know that he resembles May Maple at times, hopelessly shipping his friends or whatever the fuck it's called. Nobody has to know he is a closet romantic, _nobody. _To his relief, it seems that this is one thing Misty is simply too flustered to deduce.

And yeah, he could let this continue a little longer, especially considering she witnessed him babying his puppy like a total loser. But he can see the jagged edges of anxiety and awkwardness streaking over her face. Granted they may piss each other off, but they have an unspoken agreement confirming they _are _friends. He's not cruel enough to let her wallow any further into whatever she's thinking about. If that isn't proof he is nothing like _Emerald Rose, _he doesn't know what is. _Take notes Dawn. _

"Okay, I'll fucking do it. _Please _just stop." Gary groans, prodding her in the shoulder cautiously.

The words suffice, hauling the redhead out of her internal despairing monologue. Lifting her head, Misty stares at him quizzically. Only then does he backtrack to the pivotal moment he fucked up. Not only has Gary willing agreed to babysit Ashy-boy, he said _please _and was _cautious. _There is so much wrong with this. He even had chosen the very mature path of _not _teasing her about this situation. _Mature._ He chews it over unpleasantly, disliking its pungent taste. Since _when _was he mature enough to ignore the perfect opportunity of delivering insolent remarks?

"It makes me very uncomfortable when you're not biting my head off." Is all he can lamely offer as a pithy excuse for his actions.

For a moment, they stare vacantly at each other. Misty translates his words whilst Gary punches himself in the _soul _for this strange behaviour. It must be because Eevee is now cocooned between his legs, reminding him of the countless punctures in his smug exterior. Or maybe the _Emerald Rose _comment is still gnawing away at his pride, and he's finding bizarre ways to disprove Dawn's theory.

Suddenly, Misty regains a remarkable amount of composure. Before Gary has time to prepare himself, she forcefully jabs a finger into his face. Her eyes are sharper once more, narrowed ominously.

"This conversation never happened." Beneath the stern tone, she is practically begging him to let this drop. She's an idiot if she really thinks he can't tell the difference between this _Pretending-To-Be-Mad_ Misty and _Fucking-Hell-Run-To-The-Hills-She's-Going-To-Castrate-Me _Misty. The colour slowly drains from her face, a stark contrast to the red tainting her skin a few seconds ago.

Gary has half a mind to smugly remind her that this was hardly a conversation, but perhaps he can save this sweetly-wrapped ammo for another time. Casting a glance down at Eevee, happily perched in between them both, Gary ruffles the hair on her head warmly. He doesn't realise he repeats the gesture assuringly, only this time with Misty, until she's gawking at him in confusion. Rapidly jolting backwards, Gary clears his throat awkwardly. Somehow, he's blaming Eevee for _all _of this.

"What conversation? I don't know what the fuck you're talking about Red." He averts his eyes to the ceiling, _almost _missing the grateful, soft smile tickling her lips.

Walking towards the TV, Misty hovers over the Playstation console.

"Delia doesn't leave for a few hours," she remarks casually, slipping back into normalcy with enviable ease. "Plenty of time for me to kick your butt."

He really doesn't doubt that. Besides, he would be an idiot to think he had the slightest _chance _of winning any game against her. Misty Waterflower is anything but an amateur at gaming. She's not dubbed one of the best gamers in the region for her lame-ass alias '_WaterflowerPowerUp' _after all. The few times they have played together, Gary has been left with humiliating, stinging defeat and hidden awe of her impressive skills.

"Pssht." Gary scoffs, careful not to disrupt Eevee as he adjusts his weight to catch the wireless controller Red tosses his way carelessly. "Whatever, loser-gamer-freak girl."

The insult has no legs to stand on but honestly now he just wants to have some _peace _and unwind before trudging off to supervise his clueless friend. Of course, it's a given that he is going to get _no _sleep tonight all. The fear of something catastrophic happening in the house while he sleeps is very real. Not to mention the fact that Ash will undoubtedly have countless activities planned when he discovers they're having a legit sleepover.

A once serene thought perilously double crosses him. Perhaps Gary Oak isn't just a 'can dish it but can't take it' kind of guy. Perhaps he's also a masochist, deliberately setting himself up for situations that will lead to nothing but trouble all for the sake of his friends. It's slightly sickening and Dawn needs to re-evaluate because according to the forums, _Emerald Rose _would never succumb to such things.

Beside him Eevee stirs, evidently upset with the lack of devotion her human is providing. She rolls onto her back, one fluffy paw reaching to try and knock the controller out of his hands. When he grips it tighter stubbornly, because he is _not _losing again to _anyone_, Eevee simply crawls on top of the pesky distraction. Setting the controller aside with a chuckle, Gary quirks his lips upwards. Honestly, she knows _exactly _what she needs to do to get his utmost attention.

"Do you mind what we play?" Misty asks from the floor, hovering over the console.

"Not really." He shrugs, smoothing over the layers of endless fur. It's therapeutic. And for a moment, he is naïve enough to believe that tonight is going to be uneventful and painstakingly boring.

Seconds later, it appears that this is not the only thing he's being naïve about. He can hear that _familiar _theme tune poking fun at him through the speakers as Misty _Satanflower_ lounges beside him on the sofa. She looks so pleased with herself too, eyes sparkling with mirth. Of course, Gary has fucking _walked _straight into this one, and it's too late to turn back now. Stupidly, Gary didn't clock onto Misty's devious schemes when she asked him what he wanted to play. Instead of suspecting her, he had taken time out of being an ass to _trust _her. But obviously, it's all a mistake. _Masochist. _

"Excited to be reunited with your brethren?"

Picking up the controller, Gary selects the iconic blue hedgehog as his character gruffly. He is _so fucking done _with all this.

"_Fuck off_, Red."

* * *

><p><strong>.End Notes.<strong>

Misty does not let Gary get away with anything ever…and I love Gary. All bark and no bite definitely, smirk away and be rude all you want but you are just uber gooey on the inside. I have the headcannon that Gary cares an awful lot about things. He really does, he just doesn't put it on display all the time, that's not who he is. Plus he is 10 in the anime, he has _slightly _matured...we hope. And Gary and Eevee being cute together - it had to happen guys.

I _really _wanted Eevee to be in this fic more. But the cold truth is, there is not enough space to flesh this relationship out properly in the official chapters without wasting words and time. I planned a scene with Gary being all adorably soppy with Eevee way back around Chapter 2 and just really wanted it to happen.

Also, Misty and Gary are too awesome, and I wanted to write them interacting together some more. I have a funny Gary scene later on in this story that kind of relates to how he is here. I just love these characters so damn much I want them all to get special, big moments!

If you guessed- yes. The next chapter, when Ash comes to May's house to get Drew, he will have Gary in tow. I thought of this short pre-scene leading up to that so bashed this out whilst feeling terrible. I know it's not the best writing in the world and I'm sorry I do not have the energy, but I hope you enjoyed nonetheless. Gary's POV is pretty blunt and straight-forward and that's just what I can deal with atm!

Btw, I didn't just pick Dog randomly for Eevee. This choice was actually quite hard because Eevee has a lot of different animal resemblances. I think some of the Eeveelutions are more Cat-like than Eevee itself, and once I had thought of a cute bounding Pomeranian looking up at Gary with love, I just had to go with it. Also, I have two little adorable dogs of my own and I'm totally partial to Dogs. Sorry Cats.

I sincerely wish you all lovely Christmases and festive holidays.

Next chapter will come when I'm feeling better,

Until that day comes!


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